


Vows Made in Wine

by stcrmpilot



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: (and emhyr doesn't think twice about it cause it's very common in nilfgaardian culture), (dettlaff and syanna are both alive), (geralt has a lot of partners; it's not a focus of this fic and only regis shows up), (of said assassins), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Assassination Attempt(s), Empress Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff, Good Parent Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Politics, Polyamory, Post-Blood and Wine (The Witcher 3 DLC), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Toussaint (The Witcher), Vampires!, emhyr is.. trying, hedgehog man pls get therapy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2020-08-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:54:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 32,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24933343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stcrmpilot/pseuds/stcrmpilot
Summary: Following the debacle that was the hunt for the Beast of Beauclair, Geralt finds himself settling into semi-retirement quite well and rides for the City of the Golden Towers to pay Ciri a visit. No sooner has he arrived than he gets caught up in one of Emhyr's schemes and finds himself heading right back to Toussaint to guard the emperor against assassins—not as a witcher, but as Emhyr's courtesan.Or: the fake dating fic no one asked for, least of all Geralt, and yet will receive anyway.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Emhyr var Emreis, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Dettlaff van der Eretein/Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy (mentioned), Emhyr var Emreis/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Comments: 182
Kudos: 554





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I pray you, do not fall in love with me, for I am falser than vows made in wine."  
> \- William Shakespeare, _As You Like It_

If Geralt had, at any point on the long road to the City of the Golden Towers, managed to gather the foresight to deduce that having a daughter in the Imperial Court would make it exceedingly difficult to avoid wearing a doublet, he thinks he may well have grabbed Ciri and ran right back to Velen to sic her on the nearest drowner. 

The worst part is, he can't even deny to himself that it's entirely by choice. Since Ciri returned to Nilfgaard and agreed to take up her place as empress-in-training, Geralt has been making stops at the palace with ever-increasing frequency. It began as a way to ease the anxious itch under his skin, thinking about her trapped in the capital with a bunch of nobles; he would be "granted an audience", as Mererid insisted on describing it, he would make sure she was adjusting alright, and he would be on his way. Then he discovered the suite set aside for him and the astoundingly comfortable bed within, then the merits of palace food. _Then_ he found himself tangled up in the mess in Toussaint and spent several weeks resting at his new estate, taking on the occasional contract but mostly, in truth, lounging around in the sunshine and sampling wine. And after several months of steadfastly denying it, he was eventually forced to admit that Ciri has settled in just fine, that she probably doesn't need an old witcher stirring up mutterings in the court, and that he visits these days simply to savour his daughter's company and the palace's many luxuries. 

He's grown soft. He prefers not to think about it. 

But his newfound love of the semi-retirement he's fallen into has done nothing at all to skew his fashion sense into line with Nilfgaard's, and it certainly does not stop him from complaining as the emperor's tailor stuffs him into yet another black and white doublet under the watchful eye of Mererid. 

"Ow!" He glares over his shoulder as the tailor pricks him with his needle, but the tailor only sets his mouth into an annoyed line. Yet another drawback to his frequent visits: the staff are no longer afraid of him. 

"Fuck's sake," he grumbles, shifting from foot to foot and resisting the impulse to tug at the too-tight legs of his trousers. "Can't I be granted some sort of… diplomatic immunity? To wear armour to banquets?"

Mererid's whole face tightens up in displeasure. "The gentleman should be made aware that diplomatic immunity does not cover matters of common decency."

"I'll show you indecency," Geralt threatens glumly. 

"The gentleman should–" 

A giggle from the doorway at Geralt's back interrupts the chamberlain's doubtlessly infuriating train of thought. Geralt's mood brightens a hundred times over before he even turns his head. 

"Ciri," he grins, as she steps into the room. She looks every bit an empress—dressed in a stunning white gown with gold embroidery that probably cost more than his entire vineyard, her hair done up in elaborate braids, a delicate elven circlet resting on her forehead—except perhaps for the matching grin on her face. He only manages not to pull himself away from the tailor because Ciri hurries up to him before he can, and wraps him in a huge hug. 

"Geralt!" She's smiling brighter than the sun when she eventually draws back, and it makes his heart ache. "Oh, it's been too long! Where have you vanished to this time?"

"Ah, well…" Geralt winces. "Toussaint, actually."

Ciri shakes her head. "I should've known you'd be involved. You absolutely must tell me everything later. Everyone's been so stingy with his reports from the duchy ever since the vampire attack." 

"Yeah?" Privately, Geralt is glad. He was hoping for a chance to explain himself to Ciri before the rumours reached her—rumours which, as he had the pleasure of discovering on the journey to the palace, have been blown massively out of proportion, and in some cases have been fabricated entirely. 

"Ah! That reminds me." Ciri turns to Mererid. "Father sent me to find you. He'd like a word."

Mererid gets that warm, fond half-smile on his face that he only ever turns on Ciri; she really has managed to charm the nation, far more than anyone could've expected from a woman thus far literally raised by Wolves. 

"Of course, my lady," he says, with a half bow to her. Geralt gets a stern glare as the chamberlain takes his leave. He sighs. 

"Cheer up," Ciri consoles him. "He'll grow to… tolerate you. Possibly."

"Just what I always wanted," Geralt says drily. The tailor steps away from him, finished with the torture for the evening, and he moves his arms around experimentally. "Playing messenger now, are we?" he teases, undoing a button at the collar of his doublet that he knows will be forcibly done up again soon. 

"Not really," Ciri admits. "I came to see you, before all the formalities. I think Father's given up on trying to keep me from running off to find you when you arrive, gave me something useful to do while I'm at it."

Geralt still has to suppress a wince at the use of Emhyr's newest title. To him, someone who's only spent time with the two of them in fits and starts, the transition from "emperor" to "Emhyr" to "father" was startlingly quick. Even he has to admit that the man is trying, working as hard as he can to rebuild the trust he broke between him and Ciri. For that, Geralt is grateful; in a place like this, Ciri needs family. But he hasn't yet shaken the worry he feels for her, the nagging thought that Emhyr might well fuck it all up and hurt her again. And, just maybe, it still causes a little pang of jealousy to think that Emhyr gets to spend all the time he likes with Ciri while Geralt is out trudging along the Path. He prefers not to think about that either. 

"Hm. In that case–" He holds out his arm, puffing out his chest in a mockery of the nobles' peacocking. "Shall we depart for the festivities, Your Highness?"

Ciri laughs, and links her arm through his. "Fine, fine. Got your dagger?"

"Yeah. You?"

"Of course. You know what they're like at these things."

Ciri has to lead him off to the ballroom; in total, Geralt has spent nearly two months living at the palace, and attended several balls when they happened to coincide with his visits, but he still hasn't truly gotten his bearings. He knows his way to the gardens, to the courtyard where the guards will sometimes engage him in a good sparring session, and to the hall containing his, Ciri's, and Emhyr's rooms. Beyond that, he's quite happy to wander the massive building until he stumbles upon his destination. But even he has begun to recognize the path to the soaring entrance of the main ballroom—he's starting to suspect that Emhyr purposefully times these events to coincide with his presence, just to piss him off. Fortunately by now he's mastered the art of standing in a corner and snacking on tiny morsels of food until Ciri and Emhyr let him out, engaging in conversation only as long as absolutely necessary without causing a major political incident. 

Ciri stops him in the hallway outside the dome that serves as a milling-around space for nobles wishing to chat before they enter the ballroom for more milling and chatting, and rises up on her tiptoes to press a kiss to his cheek. Geralt smiles reassuringly. Though it's well-known who he is to her, he's still a Northerner with no status and no blood relation to the royal family, and the assholes in the next room would think it highly improper were she to enter on his arm rather than at the emperor's side. He knows it bothers her, but they'll make up for it over a game of cards later. 

Graciously, with a sly smirk to ruin the action, Geralt opens the door for her and bows as she passes. Only he hears her little huff of laughter, a welcome sign that she's grown used to the sudden attention she commands when she walks into a room. She plays her part wonderfully, as always, smiling warmly at anyone who meets her eye as she makes her way into the ballroom proper. She'll sit with Emhyr at the end of the hall for a while, mostly listening and learning as he speaks with anyone who wants an audience, and then she'll be free to mingle and dance as she wishes. Geralt only has to last until then; he'll get to talk to her for a while between constituents, and he'll be seen dancing with her exactly once—to "solidify his rather dubious place in Cirilla's family," as Emhyr once put it—and then Ciri and Emhyr will retire for the night and he'll be free to make his escape. 

He narrows his eyes at the crowd before him, many of whom have now turned their attention to the witcher in their midst. He wishes they were drowners. 

For the next half hour or so, Geralt makes rounds between the table of very small foods, the table of very small desserts, and the table of alcohol, keeping on the move to avoid getting dragged into conversation. By the time he spots the emperor and his heir rising from their thrones to join the party, he's somewhat tipsy, still quite hungry, and rather proud of himself for managing not to speak to anyone for longer than a minute. Unfortunately Ciri is immediately ambushed by someone else vying for her attention, and Geralt's moment of distraction has been taken as an invitation by a noblewoman who has suddenly appeared quite close to him. 

"Well," the woman purrs, "I must say this is unexpected!"

Geralt blinks at her. 

"Clephe Stryrnahm," she introduces herself. 

"Oh," he says. "Er. Geralt."

She laughs, as if this is somehow hilarious. "Oh, you dear thing," she smiles, somewhat pityingly. "Of course you are Geralt of Rivia. Your adventures are known throughout the Empire! They are terribly intriguing."

"Yeah?" Geralt tries not to let a wince show on his face. As of yet, he's never enjoyed a conversation that started with praise for his—no doubt exaggerated and propagandized—adventures. 

"Indeed!" Apparently encouraged by his responses, she sidles closer and tangles herself up with his arm. "In fact, I recently had the opportunity to attend a performance of some of Master Dandelion's ballads. They were… quite informative."

 _Fuck,_ thinks Geralt. "Ah," he says. He carefully leans away, testing the strength of her grip without actually trying to run. The results aren't encouraging. 

"Oh, yes." Her voice has dropped low now; she rests a hand on his chest, clearly thinking herself quite free to feel him up in the middle of the banquet. "I had dearly hoped for the chance to speak with you further, hear the tales for myself. Perhaps in private?"

"I, uh–" Geralt flinches as her hand travels lower to rest on his abdomen. "I… can't. Ciri will want to see me," he says lamely. 

This, too, she seems to find hilarious, and admittedly it stings. "Oh, how quaint! I do believe she will manage well without you. Come now, let us take a stroll through the gardens. There is a lovely alcove in which you might–" 

Geralt watches, confused, as shock freezes her mid-sentence. She releases his arm and steps away, wide eyes fixed somewhere over his shoulder. Then an entirely different hand settles on his arm, and he turns to find himself rather abruptly standing next to Emhyr var Emreis. 

"Uh," he says eloquently, glancing down at his arm. 

Meanwhile, the noblewoman forces a simpering smile back onto her face, and steps back further to curtsy. "Your Imperial Highness," she says. "A great honour, my lord."

Emhyr watches, as always, without a trace of emotion on his face. "Countess," he greets her. He casts a look at Geralt, who squints at him in question. "I see you and Sir Geralt are acquainted."

"Oh, yes, my lord," she says, still a bit stunned. "We were…" She trails off upon realizing that it might not be wise to recount her attempts at seduction to the emperor, and that she's done nothing else at all since laying eyes on Geralt. 

Geralt is pleased to see her floundering, and quite ready to end the interaction entirely—hopefully Emhyr will lead him off to find Ciri and he can be done with the whole night, though the touching is an odd way to do it. Emhyr has other plans. His expression turns suddenly cold, and his grip on Geralt's arm tightens. 

"I am aware," says Emhyr. "I do hope I misheard, Countess. I am sure we would both be disheartened, were you to publicly and repeatedly proposition an emperor's–" and then he says a word that Geralt, with his somewhat limited grasp of the Nilfgaardian language, doesn't recognize. 

And that's when his life turns very strange, very fast. 

All the blood drains from Clephe's face. "I'm– I am– Your Highness, I did not– I beg your forgiveness, sire, I had no–"

Bored, Emhyr holds up a hand to stop her rambling apology. "Leave us."

She curtsies again, and nearly trips over her own dress in her haste to get away. Geralt watches her clumsy retreat until she disappears onto the side porch and Emhyr's hand falls from his arm. He steps in front of Emhyr, eyebrow raised. 

"The fuck was that?" he asks. "What did you tell her?"

Emhyr's expression softens ever so slightly, in what Geralt has come to interpret as amusement. "Come, witcher," he says simply, and turns to leave. 

At some point, Geralt learned to accept that Emhyr makes commands, not requests, and that any respect he holds for the commandee can be found in the tone of his voice, his body language, his eyes, rather than the presence of a "please". Geralt has had ample experience with both his respect and his lack thereof, and thinks himself quite proficient at distinguishing the two. Thus, he only rolls his eyes a little before following Emhyr out of the ballroom and into an empty corridor, which he assumes he meant for the emperor and company exclusively. 

"Hey, you're not gonna execute her later or something, right?" he checks. 

Emhyr hums noncommittally. 

"That's not a good joke."

"I will not," he confirms. "Unless you request it, as is your right, though I would warn you that it may stunt your ever-growing popularity."

"I will not request it." Geralt narrows his eyes. "I have a right?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because she acted disrespectfully."

"I'm a barbarian, remember? That's her job."

"If you put as much time as Cirilla does into learning what is and is not acceptable in a Nilfgaardian court, perhaps you would not have to tolerate such behaviour."

Geralt considers this idea, and discards it. He does fine as it is. "So, where're we going?"

"You shall see."

"What'd you call me, anyway?"

Emhyr glances at him sideways, and pointedly says nothing. Geralt huffs. 

He's led to the emperor's study, the unofficial one just off his bedroom, fuming all the way. He's no master tactician, but he's not stupid; he knows he's just been ensnared in one of Emhyr's many schemes. Being touched by Emhyr is more than enough to put him on edge. Their sudden retreat from the party has him downright nervous. 

The feeling of dread only grows when he steps inside to find Mererid standing next to the desk, looking sour as ever, and Ciri pacing back and forth across the room. She stops and looks up when they enter, a relieved smile on her face. 

"Sit," says Emhyr, gesturing to the two chairs across from his desk. He dismisses Mererid with a nod, and sits as well. 

"Alright, what the fuck?" Geralt demands. He looks to Ciri for answers, but she only shrugs apologetically. 

"I believe I may trust that no part of the following discussion will leave this room?" Emhyr raises an eyebrow at Geralt, and only Geralt. 

"Sure," he says warily. 

"Of course," says Ciri. 

Geralt frowns. "But what–" 

"There have been several attempts on my life as of late," says Emhyr, and it shuts Geralt up pretty well. "Very poor ones," he adds, at Ciri's look of concern. "None have come remotely close to succeeding. However, none of the assassins have been caught alive. All have committed suicide upon capture, using a toxin which appears to render the muscles useless. As such, the mages have not succeeded in healing them or reviving them for interrogation, but the nature of the attacks leads me to believe that they were organized, and therefore that there are better ones to come."

"Is that supposed to be comforting?" Geralt asks incredulously. 

"Do you require comfort?" Emhyr shoots back. 

Ciri sighs. Emhyr clears his throat, looking very slightly embarrassed. 

"Regardless," he continues, "I can assure you, Cirilla, that there is no danger. I am not a stranger to such matters."

"Wonder why," Geralt mutters. Now it's his turn to draw Ciri's ire. 

"Well, I know you aren't just going to ignore it until it goes away," Ciri says decisively. "So what do you have planned?"

Emhyr's gaze turns to Geralt. 

"Yeah, figured," he sighs. "Just get your pet witcher to hunt them down, is that it?"

"No," says Emhyr. "I have a… somewhat more involved request for you."

"Right, let's get it over with."

"I wish for you to act as my concubine until this matter is resolved."

Geralt freezes. "What?" he croaks. 

"Uh, yeah, _what?_ " Ciri demands. 

"In title only." Emhyr waves a hand dismissively. "As much as I do not want my reign to end with my gruesome death, I fear I could not bear your company for long enough to complete the illusion. What I truly need is a bodyguard. I shall be departing for Beauclair in two days’ time to discuss the city's recent plight and negotiate aid to be delivered. By tradition my own guards will not accompany me inside the palace itself, and as I do not yet know what I am facing, I am not entirely confident that a compliment of guards will be sufficient to fend off an attack on the road. You will be compensated well, of course."

"So you–" Geralt pinches the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache come on already. "So instead of just hiring a bodyguard—y'know, like you do—you have to pretend to be fucking me?"

Ciri snorts, which earns her disapproving looks from both of them. 

Emhyr sniffs. "Bringing a hired thug to guard me within the walls of the Duchess's home would be a gross insult. I require someone of acceptable rank and personal significance, so that they may accompany me at all times. As an acquaintance and a highly skilled fighter, you are by far the best choice."

"Hey," Ciri argues. "I can fight. How come I can't just come along?"

"Because it would be reprehensible of me to place my heir in the path of my assassins," Emhyr says, suddenly stern. "I do not doubt your abilities. The risk is simply unacceptable. Besides–" a pleased look softens his features– "I would like you to take my place while I am gone. As practice."

Geralt's not sure he's ever seen Ciri look so alarmed. He resists the urge to smile. 

"But I can't!" she protests. "You– you do _everything!_ And– and I’ve not even been here a year, I don't know–" 

Emhyr holds up a hand, gently shushing her. "You will have all of my advisors and assistants at your disposal, and you may contact me by megascope should you require additional advice. I would not suggest it if I believed you were unsuitable."

Ciri purses her lips, still doubtful, but Geralt can tell that Emhyr's cool confidence has calmed her. Against all his best judgement, he can’t deny that Emhyr has a way with her. 

"Fine," she grumbles. "But don't you dare blame me if half your empire goes up in flames while you're gone!"

A tiny smile twitches at the corner of Emhyr's lips. "Noted."

Somehow, Geralt gets the sense that his decision has already been made for him, but he just can't bring himself to go down without a fight. He knows Emhyr; that man can talk anyone into anything and make them think it was their idea in the first place. Even if Geralt is willing to admit that this scheme might well be the safest and least disruptive way to keep Emhyr alive, the least he can do is give the bastard a run for his money. 

"And how exactly do you think you're gonna convince anyone that I'm your–" he grimaces– "concubine? Pretty sure the whole city has heard us arguing by now."

Emhyr casts him a disappointed look, as though he expected Geralt to be quicker. "I have already taken care of it. I expect most of the palace has heard by now. Gossip spreads quickly in a court."

"You–" The realization hits Geralt about as hard as an entire shaelmaar. "Oh, fuck," he groans, burying his face in his hands. "That woman, you– with the– the fucking hand! What did you _call_ me?"

Maddeningly, Emhyr's eyes gleam with amusement. "I believe there is not an exact translation into Common Speech. But an acceptable equivalent might be _favourite._ "

"Great," Geralt says sarcastically. "So all of Nilfgaard thinks we're together, and they're gonna keep thinking it regardless of whether I agree or not."

"'Together' would be an overstatement," says Emhyr. "They believe you are the eccentric and foolish whim of an emperor past his prime. A plaything, if you will, albeit one with considerable political status."

A choked noise escapes Ciri. When Geralt turns to glare at her, she bursts into giggles. 

"I will not," he says shortly. "But…" He sighs, very deeply. "If you really think there's a danger, I'll go with you. And I'll hunt down your assassins, just for subjecting me to this."

Emhyr nods his approval. "Cirilla, you may go," he says. "Geralt and I must discuss specifics."

Ciri gets up with a cheeky grin. "Have fun, then!" she teases, winking at Geralt over her shoulder. 

Geralt removes one useless fancy slipper and throws it at her back. Her laughter haunts him until she's halfway down the hall. 

Apparently immune to the sheer absurdity of the situation he's created, Emhyr stands and wanders over to the window behind his desk. A light breeze wafts inside, carrying with it the smell of the flower beds outside and Emhyr's favourite scent: sandalwood, with a hint of something sweet. Geralt stands as well, retrieves his shoe, and joins him. 

"I expect you will want to know exactly how each of the attempts was carried out?" says Emhyr. 

"Might as well," Geralt grumbles. “If I’m gonna be stuck with you for a couple weeks, I’m gonna do this right. Not getting charged with treason or something for letting you get killed.”

“I am certain Cirilla would pardon you.” He lifts the window open all the way. "The first assassin rappelled from the roof and entered through this window."

Geralt looks at him sharply, alarmed by the close call and more so by Emhyr’s apparent indifference. "He got in _here?_ When?"

"Approximately two weeks ago." Waving a hand, Emhyr dismisses his concerns. "It was well after midnight, I had finished working. Two guards stand at my bedroom door. They apprehended him without much trouble."

"Hm." Geralt leans forward, out of the window, and cranes his neck to look up at the roof. It's not a long descent to Emhyr's rooms, but it's a hell of a way to fall if anything goes wrong. "If I go up there, will I find anything?"

"No. My guard captain searched already, and retrieved the rope. I do not know how the assassin got up, but I have been assured that there are many possible ways." Emhyr turns a dry smile on Geralt, clearly recalling the time he scaled a thirty-foot section of the castle wall to win a bet with an off duty guard. Geralt huffs a laugh. 

"The assassin carried nothing but a dagger and the clothes on his back—both of Nilfgaardian origin. He was disarmed, placed in handcuffs, and then proceeded to bite into a false tooth. He was dead in seconds. Upon examination, the dagger was found to be coated in the same poison that killed him."

Geralt winces. "Well supplied. Not a good sign."

"Indeed."

He leaves the window and begins pacing slow circles around the room, scanning it for other weaknesses as he does. "Alright, next one then. How'd it go down?"

"An attack on my carriage, as I returned from Nazair. A single archer posing as a traveller, firing from his horse as I passed. He was not a spectacular shot."

"Hm. Dead before interrogation?"

"Yes."

"Next?"

"And last. Two intruders used stolen sets of armour to enter the palace. They killed a commander who questioned their identities and attacked me as I walked through the gardens."

"You drag guards along behind you on your relaxing strolls?" Geralt asks. 

"No." Emhyr tilts his head slightly. "The patrols were, until that incident, sufficient protection. I disarmed them myself."

Both of Geralt's eyebrows shoot up. "Seriously?"

A tiny smirk tugs at Emhyr's lips. 

Geralt whistles. "Damn. Alright then. Besides the poison, any connections between the four men?"

"They were all… rather poorly groomed." Emhyr wrinkles his nose, looking more offended by this than the actual attempts on his life. 

Geralt rolls his eyes. "Probably Northern then, if you think that. Plenty of thugs for hire there, ex-soldiers and deserters, even just farmers desperate for money. Lots of spare Nilfgaardian armour lying around too, if you can get to the battlefields before all the dead are burned."

"You believe they were all hired individually, by someone with significantly greater intelligence and organizational skills than the assassins themselves," Emhyr states. 

"Yeah." Geralt stops pacing and faces him. "You already figured all this out."

"Yes," says Emhyr. "But a second opinion from a professional is always valuable."

"Yeah, yeah," Geralt sighs, feeling a bit put out that his deductions won't be impressing anyone today. "Guess you've also noticed that they're trying to get at you alone, judge how easy you are to kill without any human shields in the way." More and more, he’s beginning to believe that Emhyr’s precautions are warranted. The pattern is clear; the entity behind the assassination attempts is merely testing the limits of the emperor’s personal defences, and will strike with much greater effectiveness once they’ve got a solid idea of what they’re up against. He understands Emhyr’s desire to throw a new variable into the equation.

"Hence my belief that a more effective attack may take place in Beauclair," Emhyr agrees. 

"Any idea who's sending them?"

Emhyr shakes his head. "I would like to ensure they do not hail from Temeria. Beyond that, it does not matter to me which Northern drunkard thought to throw a few untrained men at me. They are not the first, and they will not be the last."

"Yeah, they really hate you up there," Geralt says, helpfully. 

Emhyr levels him with an unimpressed look, and returns to watching the palace grounds out of the window. "Do you require any further information?"

"I'd like to take a look at their weapons," Geralt says. "Maybe figure out what this poison is made of."

"Speak to my guard captain, he will show you anything you wish to see."

"Can I get a copy of your schedule for Beauclair?"

"I will write one for you."

"And…" Geralt sets his jaw. "Do I have to sleep in your bed from now on?"

Emhyr turns, clear amusement glittering in his eyes. "No. You are my concubine, not my betrothed."

"Great," Geralt says, audibly relieved. "If you don't need anything else, I'm gonna go take off this fucking doublet."

Surprisingly, this earns him a quiet huff of laughter from Emhyr. "You are a complex man, witcher, with surprisingly simple desires. It is refreshing. There is one condition to this arrangement.”

"Yeah?" Privately, Geralt thinks Emhyr’s company is close enough to a deal-breaker that he shouldn’t be piling on any more conditions, but he’s not entirely sure he wouldn’t be executed for saying so. 

"As you now hold a position in my court, your behaviour reflects on Cirilla and I. Thus, you will be required to take lessons on etiquette. The basics, at least. Join Cirilla tomorrow morning, her tutor will inform you of the expectations and duties of an emperor’s concubine. Mererid will fetch you afterwards, and you will sit with me and my advisors to hear the Toussaintois ambassador’s requests."

Geralt glares. He shuts his eyes, counts to three, and reminds himself that Ciri would probably be at least a little upset if Emhyr got killed because he was forced to kick his bodyguard out of the palace. Then, still grieving his lost free time, he leaves Emhyr's study without the dignity of a response. 

So much for a peaceful retirement. 


	2. Chapter 2

First and foremost among the long list of things that Geralt learns in his etiquette lesson is that being a Nilfgaardian emperor's favourite comes with an actual title, that it's now _his_ title, and that everyone has decided he must only be addressed by this title. To add insult to injury, Geralt can't seem to wrap his tongue around the word; even when it sounds to him like he's pronouncing it just fine, he still gets a sour look from the etiquette instructor and an order to do it again. 

" _Gvaern'truov_ ," says the instructor, for perhaps the tenth time. 

" _Gvaern'truov_ ," says Geralt. 

"No," she snaps. "Again."

Geralt casts a pleading look at Ciri. She, it seems, has thoroughly charmed her instructors just as she has her other staff, simply by lacking an arrogant bone in her body. He imagines it must be quite a nice change for them to deal with someone who treats them as people rather than convenient background noise. 

"Perhaps we could move on to something else," she suggests, in lovely Nilfgaardian. Her accent is different, but Geralt thinks it lends the harsh language a flowing quality, and he's glad that no one seems eager to beat it out of her. 

Her teacher softens immediately and agrees to continue with an overview of Nilfgaard's court structure, much more for Geralt's benefit than hers. It's during this lecture that Geralt discovers just how much everything differs from a Northern kingdom. He listens with a strange ringing in his ears as she describes his new roles, privileges, and place in Nilfgaardian society. As it turns out, a Nilfgaardian emperor's concubine is far from a simple plaything; he's more akin to a personal advisor, a confidant. His status is not equal to that of a consort, and his title comes with no real political power, but he is considered a legitimate partner of Emhyr's and thus has partial rights to his belongings and wealth. Moreover, being publicly acknowledged by Emhyr as his favourite is considered an affirmation of Geralt's legal status as part of his family—which, since Emhyr _has_ no other family, means he’s now next in line for the throne after Ciri. 

He’s beginning to think he’s made a huge mistake. 

Seeing that he's reeling from this information, Ciri places a hand on his arm and offers him a sympathetic look. 

"They do tend to take relationships awfully seriously around here," she says. 

"I'll say," he says faintly. His mind drifts for the rest of the lesson, and when they're dismissed he stops her in the corridor outside. 

"Hey, uh, what does that title mean, exactly?" 

Ciri bites her lip, obviously trying not to break into a grin. "I think perhaps it might be better if you didn't know."

Geralt groans. "That bad? They're not going around calling me Emhyr's whore or something, are they?"

"It's not _bad,_ " Ciri says. "Simply… amusing, for anyone who knows you and Emhyr."

"Great," he says drily. "At least someone's having fun with it."

Smiling, Ciri jumps into his arms for a quick hug before she hurries off to her next batch of Imperial duties. For the first time, none of the guards so much as flinch when he touches her. 

* * *

A knock at Emhyr's door draws him out of the reports he's been studying. 

"Enter," he calls, setting aside his papers and quill. He's more than capable of signing and sealing documents while carrying on a conversation, and often does, but this particular visitor deserves his full attention. 

Ciri slips into his office, her movements habitually smooth and silent so as not to stand out in the quiet of the room. He feels a smile tug at the corners of his lips; alone with Ciri, he makes no effort to hide it. 

"Cirilla," he greets her warmly. 

"Hey," she says, smiling back. She flops down in an armchair across from his desk and drags it closer, so she can prop her elbows up on his desk and sneak looks at all his documents. "What'd you call me here for?"

Feigning irritation, rather poorly, Emhyr shoos her off his desk so he can pass her a stack of papers. "Several reports have come in of monster activity near the northern front. It is proving a significant obstacle for the units attempting to hold ground just north of the Yaruga. I would like you to identify the threat, and while I am gone, develop and implement a strategy to eliminate it."

Emhyr knows he had her at "monster activity". She perks up and immediately starts scanning through the reports, reading the soldiers' descriptions of the beasts and their behaviour. There's even a page of sketches included, which makes her smile. Emhyr has long since given up the idea of having her abandon her witcher roots, and quite often feels like a fool for ever attempting it; not only have monsters become more and more of a problem as the war progresses, making Ciri's knowledge and fighting skill an invaluable asset, but it's simply part of who she is. She rarely has the time to sneak out for hunts these days—yes, Emhyr is aware she sneaks out for hunts, and no, he has no hope of stopping her—but he passes her every monster problem he finds to help her sate the urge. 

"Hm." She chews thoughtfully on her lip, frowning at the pages. "Sounds to me like necrophages. Ghouls, rotfiends. This might even be a graveir, by the scale. I've seen them pop up in swarms like this before. Sometimes Northern armies leave their dead lying around on purpose, to attract them."

Emhyr nods. "Might the soldiers be able to clear them out on their own?"

"Maybe," Ciri muses. "With a bit of special equipment, perhaps, and training. I'll have to think on it."

"Do," Emhyr says. "Whatever solution you devise should be carried out as soon as possible."

Ciri looks up at him and raises an eyebrow. "Is this a test?"

"A task, no more," says Emhyr. "A familiar problem, to ease you into the coming weeks. I do not doubt your judgement." 

Ciri's suspicious expression softens, and it occurs to him that even a few months ago he would've thought it preposterous to speak his mind so freely, no hidden motivations, no manipulation. Never in his life has he been allowed such a simple luxury, and nor has he ever expected it from anyone else. Then his daughter came barrelling back into his life, and he learned very quickly that the coldness and subterfuge that kept him alive and on the throne for so long would get him absolutely nowhere with her. He’s come to accept that if he wants any sort of relationship with her—and he does, more than anything these days—then he’ll have to oblige her attempts to get him to bare himself, passions and fears and ugly memories and all. It’s incredibly uncomfortable, but it hasn’t killed him yet. She's changed him so drastically that he feels as if he's getting acquainted with an entirely new side of himself, perhaps even one he could come to like. Perhaps even one _she_ could come to like. 

Carefully, Ciri keeps her eyes on her reports as she says, "Speaking of the coming weeks…" 

Emhyr braces himself. 

"You didn't actually tell Geralt what this whole scheme involves, did you?"

He purses his lips. "I told him what I believed he needed to know."

"You are ridiculous, you know," she informs him. "You were well aware that he's not familiar with Nilfgaard's court. I think you might have broken him a bit."

"That would be incredibly inconvenient," he says, privately amused by the news of Geralt's distress. 

Ciri shakes her head, a grin spreading across her face. "C'mon," she orders, standing. "Up. Round the desk."

Emhyr hesitates, looking at her dubiously, but obeys. "Cirilla, what–" 

The words stick in his throat, because Ciri steps forward and wraps him in a tight hug. His whole body freezes, his thoughts dissolving into static. 

"Thank you," she murmurs. "He won't say it, once it really sinks in, but it means a lot to him. And to me."

Emhyr swallows hard. Carefully, unsure whether he should, he lets his hands settle lightly on her back, and she rests her head on his shoulder with a content little noise. Something squeezes in his chest; all of a sudden he's painfully aware that he hasn't hugged her since she was a child, and he never even knew what he was missing. 

She lets go after a moment. From the amusement on her face, he figures he must look as stunned as he feels. 

"Are we still on for supper, then?" she asks, gathering up her papers. 

He blinks, clears his throat and pulls himself together. "Yes," he manages. "Of course."

"Brilliant!" Far too smug for her own good, Ciri saunters out of his office. 

Emhyr sits heavily in his chair, an incredulous laugh escaping him. He's met his match in her, he thinks, and it's the best demise he could imagine. 

* * *

With no sign of Mererid after nearly half an hour of aimless wandering, a bored Geralt decides now is as good a time as ever to talk to Emhyr about what he's just learned, and heads straight for his public office. He hears voices inside as he approaches, and fully expects to be refused entry, but as he pauses outside the Impera make no move to block his path. Surprised, he continues into the office as unobtrusively as he can, and finds four pairs of eyes on him—Emhyr, seated behind his desk, and across from him three men Geralt recognizes from his intelligence service. 

"Witcher," Emhyr greets him. 

He stops just inside the door. "Got a minute?" he asks Emhyr. "Don't wanna interrupt."

"Nonsense." Emhyr rises from his chair and dips his head to his officers, silently thanking them for their patience. He gestures to a smaller room off his rather grand main office, and Geralt allows himself to be herded inside. Emhyr shuts and locks the door after them. 

"Any news?" Geralt asks, nodding towards the officers. 

"Nothing relevant. Routine updates on happenings in the North."

"Hm." Geralt pauses, surveying the room. It's warm, cozy, with comfortable-looking furniture and a hearth flickering near the seating area, more like a personal lounge than a place to do business. "Why didn't you tell me?"

As usual, Emhyr is far too quick for anyone's good, and knows immediately what Geralt means to say. He nods, acknowledging that they're about to have this conversation, and heads over to a large cellarette along the back wall. He selects a bottle of wine and pours generous amounts into two goblets while Geralt watches, then takes a seat in one of the plush armchairs in the middle of the room. Geralt accepts the proffered wine, and cautiously sits as well. 

Emhyr takes a long drink before heaving a heavy sigh. "Cirilla's etiquette instructor has described your position to you, I trust. And yet you come to me for clarification, not her."

"I wanted to hear it from you." Geralt has started to feel oddly shaky. "Am I…" 

"You are part of my family, yes," answers Emhyr, far too calm. "By Nilfgaardian law you are Cirilla's father, as much as I am. That would be the information you seek, I believe?"

Geralt stares at him a moment longer. He downs most of his wine to distract himself from the multitude of emotions swirling about in his chest, things he hasn't the language to voice. It doesn't work. 

"Why–" He clears his throat. "Why would you do that? You don’t even like me." 

Emhyr raises an eyebrow. “I dislike many of my courtiers, though I would ask you not to repeat that.” 

Geralt laughs, surprised. 

Serious once more, Emhyr leans forward to study Geralt. His amber gaze is piercing, and Geralt feels the novel urge to fidget.

"You brought my daughter to me, Geralt," he says gravely. "In doing so, you have given me a chance to begin to repair the damage I have inflicted upon our relationship. To act as a father. Cirilla has even been humouring my attempts thus far. It was not what I sought when I hired you to find her, but I find it gratifying in a way I could never have anticipated, and would not trade for the world."

"Well, that's parenthood for you," Geralt muses. 

Emhyr hums his agreement. "I wish only the best for Cirilla. And I have come to understand that denying her a relationship with you would be cruel and unjust. You do not care for formalities. You and Cirilla would be family regardless of your legal status. But this title, however empty, is by far the easiest way to legitimize your relationship in the eyes of all of Nilfgaard, and to ensure you are always welcome wherever she may be. When you complete your work here, you may keep the title for as long as you wish. Consider it a bonus." 

Geralt shakes his head, bewildered. "Why didn't you say, when you asked me to do this? I never would've refused to go along with your batshit plans if I knew. Fuck," he laughs. "Forget _pretending_ to be your favourite, I'd actually fuck you if it meant I could hug Ciri in public."

"Not necessary," Emhyr says drily. Then the humour fades from his expression. He examines his goblet for a moment, deep in thought, before looking up again to meet Geralt's eyes. "I thought it inappropriate to use Cirilla as leverage against you. If the idea of pretending to be my partner was repulsive enough to override your natural reluctance to allow preventable death, then I would not wish to sway you in such a way."

Geralt leans back in his chair and rubs a hand over his face. "That's… a big change of heart, Emhyr." He has half a mind to be suspicious of the man's motivations; why shouldn't he, after all? But he has a remarkably hard time believing Emhyr is being anything but honest about this. The way he speaks of Ciri, the deep, heavy sadness in his eyes when he recalls his many failings as a parent—it tells Geralt more than his words ever could. 

"It is," Emhyr acknowledges. A wistful look crosses his sharp features. "Perhaps I am growing soft in my waning years."

Geralt snorts. "Not sure I'd go that far. You _have_ thwarted three assassination attempts in the last two weeks."

At that, Emhyr smiles—a proper, wide smile, wicked and clever. Geralt is sure it's the first time he's actually seen Emhyr smile, and he finds it rather… nice. Or something. 

"Perhaps you are right," Emhyr allows. He stands, finishes off his wine and replaces the goblet on the liquor cabinet, promoting Geralt to follow suit. "The meeting with the ambassador from Toussaint will take place in the senate as soon as I am finished with my intelligence officers. If you are amenable, I will escort you. To save Mererid the effort."

Geralt stares for a moment, accepts that his life has spiralled out of his control, and heads for the main office with a huff of laughter, Emhyr on his heels. He doesn't even need to reply; Emhyr knows he'll wait. The bastard. 

"Oh," he says, pausing at the door. "By the way. _Gvaern'truov–_ " 

" _Gvaern'truov,_ " Emhyr corrects. 

"Fuck, whatever. What's it mean?"

Emhyr purses his lips. "I believe you may find it easier to cope with your newfound social status if you did not know."

Geralt sighs. "Yeah, that's what Ciri said."

"Wise of her.” Geralt suspects there's a note of fondness in his voice, but he can never quite be sure. 

He doesn't hear a word of the reports from the North, and only marginally more of the ambassador's report, though he's aware he probably should be listening. He leaves still feeling disoriented, happy, and immensely out of his depth. He really should know not to stick his nose into politics by now. 

So far, no one has tried to force him into any more courtly lessons, so Geralt takes the opportunity to wander back to his room for a bath. Nilfgaard's impressive technological advancements mean he only has to turn a tap to fill his luxurious tub; that, combined with his oft-ignored love of feeling clean, often results in daily baths when he stays at the palace. Washed and dried, he puts on a clean set of clothes, slings his swords onto his back after a moment’s consideration, and wanders the palace until he finds someone who can point him to Emhyr's brigade captain. 

To his surprise, the captain, a nice young man called von Naellun, seems to be waiting for him in the entrance hall, and snaps to attention when he arrives. 

"Sir Geralt!" he calls, then hesitates. "Er– _Gvaern–_ " 

Geralt waves away the correction. "Yeah, you don't have to call me that. The knighthood is official enough."

Naellun looks somewhat distraught. "Technically, sir, you outrank a knight by far. It would be improper to refer to you by your lowest rank, an insult, even. If His Majesty heard–" 

"Emhyr won't care, promise," Geralt sighs. He claps Naellun on the shoulder as a proper greeting. "C'mon, heard you kept those weapons around."

Naellun shoots him a dubious look, but relents. They've trained together enough for the captain to know that Geralt isn't one to place value on rank or titles. 

"Very well," he allows, and gestures Geralt towards the main staircase. "They have been laid out in a cell in the dungeons, to ensure they remain untouched."

Geralt lowers his voice, conscious of the many varied people going about their business in the palace. "Naellun, did you see any of the assassination attempts?"

Naellun nods. "Yes, sir. I was part of the company travelling back from Nazair." He unlocks the heavy wooden door leading to the dungeons, and waves Geralt inside before him. "I've never seen anything like it. He loosed one arrow, through the window of His Majesty's carriage, from such a distance we never thought to herd him away. Then he fell from his horse, dead in an instant."

"Hm," Geralt says darkly. "Emhyr said none of the attacks came close to succeeding."

Naellun offers a sheepish look. 

"That fucker," mutters Geralt. 

The captain relaxes visibly when they reach the cell, glad to no longer be between Geralt's job and Emhyr's lack of self-preservation. "Here," he says, handing Geralt a key. "His Majesty ordered that you should have access to the seized weapons whenever you wish. Will you require anything else?"

"Nah, get back to your guarding. And don't let Emhyr die until I've given him a talking to, yeah?"

"As you wish, sir." Naellun hides his smile with a small bow before leaving the cell. 

The four weapons have been laid out on a table: a bow and one arrow, the head mostly detached from the shaft by someone's efforts to pull it out of the carriage, a long knife, and two Nilfgaardian guardsman's swords. The weapons themselves are nothing special, nothing identifiable, but as Geralt moves to get a closer look he's struck by the pungent, musky odour hanging around them. Ignoring the way it turns his stomach, he picks up the knife and sniffs at the blade, holds it to the light of a lantern on the wall; the metal's been turned matte and mottled by a sticky substance, subtle enough that Geralt doesn't think he would notice it but for the smell. The scent of poison hemlock is obvious enough, but even at such a high concentration he knows it wouldn't cause a human to simply drop dead. 

He can't identify the other ingredients beneath the hemlock, but he's satisfied that the poison is absolutely deadly to a human, and he finds it coating the arrowhead and both swords as well—yet more signs of a well-equipped and dangerous enemy. 

Resolving to ask Emhyr to get some herbalists working on the mystery, Geralt locks the cell behind him and heads back up the stairs. Perhaps if they can learn enough about the poison's composition, they can begin working on an antidote. He would certainly like to have one on hand, should worse come to worst in Beauclair. 

He's musing on the capabilities of his own alchemy set when he pushes open the door and emerges into the palace once more. Only then does he hear the screams. 


	3. Chapter 3

"Witcher," Emhyr grits out. " _Enough._ "

Geralt looks up, fingers pausing in the middle of working at the buttons of Emhyr's heavy robe, and levels him with a withering glare. "Well, sorry for helping, _Your Highness,_ " he says sarcastically. "Not like you just almost died or anything. Let me get this fucking thing off so I can look at your shoulder before you make it worse."

It's chaos. As soon as Geralt ran into the courtyard in the middle of the castle, spotted the swordsman in nobles' robes lying in the middle of half a dozen guards and pieced together the screaming enough to realize that Ciri and Emhyr had been dining together before seemingly vanishing into thin air, he made for Emhyr's rooms. With its secret escape routes and magical warding, that's where Ciri would bring him. Geralt burst into the study with his sword still in hand to find the two of them just arrived, Emhyr slumped in a chair and gripping his arm to his side, Ciri fussing over him in vain. He didn't even get a chance to ask whether the injury was inflicted by a poisoned blade before a handful of guards, a healer and several nosy diplomats poured into the room after him. 

Now that same healer hovers anxiously over his shoulder as he faces down Emhyr and his stubborn disposition. Emhyr's chain of office and outermost leather tabard are already strewn on the floor; it's as far as Geralt got before Emhyr came to his senses and shoved him off. The guards and politicians have been sent out and are milling around in the hallway, trying to sneak looks of the emperor and princess through the half-open door. Geralt's panic wore off while arguing with Emhyr; now he's just annoyed. 

"It is not broken, merely dislocated," Emhyr says, dismissive. "Leave me be, and shut the door. I am perfectly fine."

The command is aimed more at Geralt, but the healer doesn't seem willing to risk Emhyr's ire and leaves with a hurried bow. Geralt watches her close the door as quietly as she can, then turns back to Emhyr with his arms crossed over his chest. 

"Yeah?" he questions. "You're fine? What are you gonna do, set it yourself?"

"I am more than capable of doing so," Emhyr says stiffly. 

Geralt's about to call bullshit, but realizes abruptly that it might well be true. Emhyr var Emreis is so different from the cursed young man he once knew that he often finds himself forgetting that part of his life. He huffs in frustration, lingering adrenaline still simmering in his veins. 

Ciri steps forward and places a hand on Emhyr's uninjured shoulder, a calming presence to temper Geralt's… enthusiasm. Emhyr relaxes instantly, and it allows a hint of pain to show on his face. 

"Let Geralt do it," she urges. "He's good at it, trust me! It's much easier than doing it yourself."

Ciri's reasonable tone seems to sway him. He glares warily up at Geralt, though plied by his daughter it comes off a bit more like a pout. Geralt resists the unexpected urge to laugh. 

"Fine," Emhyr mutters. He points a finger at Geralt's chest. "Leave my robes alone. They cost more than a month's worth of wyvern contracts."

Geralt snorts. "Yeah, alright, alright. Just brace yourself against that armrest. Need something to bite on?"

"No," he says shortly. Carefully, he lets his injured arm down to hang at his side and grips the armrest in preparation. "Get on with it, witcher."

Geralt sighs. He bends in front of Emhyr and takes his wrist in one hand, his elbow in the other, then gently lifts and straightens his arm. Emhyr's breath hitches, his knuckles turning white around the end of the armrest, but he doesn't make a sound as Geralt firmly guides the joint back into position. He draws a deep, deliberate breath as the pain begins to fade, his whole body slumping forwards. Geralt slowly lowers his arm to rest in his lap, and feels around the shoulder joint to make sure there aren't any broken bones. 

By the time he's done, Emhyr is already pulling himself together, sitting up straight in the chair, his gaze sharp and composed once more. He moves his wrist experimentally, then his elbow, then very carefully lifts and flexes his arm, judging the extent of the damage. 

"Better?" Geralt murmurs. 

Emhyr's eyes meet his, and he nods. 

"Don't strain that," he warns, leaving Emhyr’s personal space to lean back against his desk. "The joint will be weak. Try to keep it still for a few days, at least." He doesn't even bother telling Emhyr to keep the arm in a sling. He's half convinced the man would rather suffer permanent damage than let his empire see him weakened. 

"Very well," Emhyr says. Then, quieter, "Thank you."

Geralt blinks, surprised, and nods. 

With a final pat to Emhyr’s shoulder, Ciri throws herself down in the squishiest armchair and heaves a sigh. “You’d better figure out who’s sending those bastards,” she complains. “It’s not easy to drag another person across the Continent.”

“Across the Continent?” Geralt asks. He eyes Emhyr. “What happened?”

“I didn’t have a weapon,” Ciri explains, pinching the bridge of her nose. “As soon as I realized the man looking for an audience was not actually a courtier, I just reacted. My first thought was Kaer Morhen.”

Geralt feels a little twinge of longing for his old home. It’s oddly touching, he thinks, that Ciri too considers it a place of safety, even after everything they’ve been through there. 

“It is quite a remarkable place,” Emhyr muses. He touches his arm idly. “I would enjoy one day having the chance to see it properly.”

Ciri casts him a sheepish look. “Yeah, sorry about that.”

Emhyr waves away her apology. 

“I sort of landed us on top of one of the walls in the inner courtyard,” she explains. “It crumbled, and we fell.”

“Ah,” says Geralt. 

“And anyway, I brought us right back here once I knew he was alright.” She looks up. “What happened to the assassin?”

“Dead,” he tells her. “Saw the guards poking at his body.”

Emhyr makes a disapproving noise. 

“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking.” Feeling the restless energy start to come back, Geralt pushes himself off the desk and begins pacing around the room. “Took a look at the weapons you left for me. They were all coated in the same stuff. There’s definitely hemlock in it, a _lot,_ but I can’t tell what else. Never seen anything like it. The whole courtyard reeked of it too.”

“Hm.” Emhyr frowns at the floor, and for a long moment remains quiet, lost in his thoughts. 

“Perhaps you should talk to the palace healer,” Ciri suggests. There’s a nervous tension in her body, even though Geralt knows she’ll be fighting the exhaustion of two teleports with a passenger. “Your mages too, if there’s a magical component. They might be able to develop an antidote.”

Geralt nods his agreement. 

“No,” says Emhyr. He sounds resigned, in a way that sends a prickle of worry through Geralt’s chest. “Even if an antidote could be developed, I have seen the poison work. There would simply be no time to administer it.”

“Surely it’s worth a try!” protests Ciri. 

“ _No,_ ” Emhyr repeats, sharp this time. Immediately a flicker of regret crosses his face, and he looks away from her. 

It’s a very peculiar expression on him, and it prompts Geralt to move to get a closer look, squishing himself beside Ciri into her chair. She grumbles—she’s really too big now to share a chair with, but Geralt doesn’t much care—before she sags against his side, the overexertion quickly getting the better of her. He settles an arm around her shoulders as he studies Emhyr. The ever-collected man isn't one to snap, isn't one to show much of his emotions at all, beyond vague displeasure. Geralt supposes he's earned a bit of a slip up after the day he's had, but he's certain it's more than that. He's got something on his mind and it's hit a sore spot. 

Geralt replays the attack in his mind: the ambush, the injury, all the guards and courtiers crowding around, ruining Emhyr's plans to keep the assassination attempts under wraps… the _many_ assassination attempts, one man after another sent on suicide missions to test the emperor, see just how hard he'll be to kill…

It dawns on Geralt slowly, a sick, sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

"Someone's watching," he says quietly. "That's why you won't ask anyone for help. There's someone in the palace feeding information to the assassins' employer, telling them what happens each time they throw themselves at you. How to get in. What to try next."

Emhyr's gaze meets his. "I cannot rule it out," he says, and though his face is unreadable Geralt suddenly smells fear on the air. 

That makes up his mind. _Fear_ has no place around a man like Emhyr. 

"Right," he says firmly, "then I'll stay here tonight."

Emhyr blinks. 

"We'll only be here one more night," he reasons. "Once we're on the road the number of possible informants drops way down, it'll be easier to keep you safe. For now… you can't trust your guards, your healers, your mages. Gotta have someone around who's not gonna let you get stabbed before the night is out."

Tilting his head, Emhyr regards him for a long, quiet moment, mulling something over in his head. "That is hardly necessary," he says. 

Geralt raises an eyebrow. "Seems pretty necessary to me."

"I do not wish to spend my night in your presence," he says, scathing. 

Geralt shrugs. "Tough."

Emhyr sets his jaw, looking about ready to start giving out orders—and then, shockingly, relents. "Very well," he mutters. His eyes drift to Ciri, as if hoping for consolation, and Geralt watches his sour mood dissolve in an instant. 

Geralt looks down as well, and his heart squeezes. Ciri is fast asleep on his shoulder, hand gripping his arm, just like she did when she was a little kid with a tendency to nap in his arms after getting worn out in training. He chuckles quietly, pulling her a bit closer; some things, apparently, never change. 

"She's had a lot of practice with her powers by now," he explains, glancing at Emhyr. "But it still tires her out sometimes. Especially bringing other people with her."

Emhyr watches Ciri with something akin to awe. "And… she brought me regardless?"

Geralt snorts, drawing a curious look from Emhyr. "Course she did."

This, too, seems to require a great deal of consideration for Emhyr. He falls silent again, studying Ciri like he wants to commit every detail of the moment to memory—and, Geralt thinks, he probably does. He probably wishes he were in Geralt's place. Geralt doesn't blame him. 

"Witcher," he murmurs, after some time. 

"Hm?"

"Tell me. Why are you doing this?" Emhyr's gaze lifts to him, subtly scrutinizing. He always is—a necessary habit, one Geralt shares. And because Geralt knows what it's like to be constantly on guard, he knows what Emhyr is really asking. _Why should I trust you?_

He opens his mouth to answer, then pauses, realizing that he doesn't quite have an answer. He hasn't really considered it. Because he can play bodyguard to anyone, for coin, but that's not what this is. Pretending to be Emhyr's lover, insisting on staying at his side overnight, taking up a place in his family… by all accounts, it makes no sense. Not after everything Emhyr has put him and Ciri through. And yet he finds himself devoid of any desire to make him pay, to let him suffer, even to risk his injury or death. Somehow, he's become personally invested in Emhyr's safety, and somehow it doesn't bother him. 

"I suppose," he begins, "because Ciri would be pretty put out if you died now. I mean…" He makes a quiet noise of frustration, struggling to voice his thoughts. "Look, she was willing to give you another shot, and she clearly thinks you're doing pretty well with it. She wouldn't be around if she didn't. And for what it's worth, I think you're really trying, and if she wants you in her life then I do too. Not that I wouldn't still flay you if you did anything to hurt her, but…" He shrugs. "You're not so bad, Emhyr. I don't wanna see you killed."

Emhyr's gaze slips into middle distance as he turns this over and over in his head. Eventually his expression softens, ever so slightly, and Geralt knows his answer was satisfactory. 

"She should rest," he murmurs, rising from his seat with a slight wince. "Shall we wake her?"

"No need," Geralt says, very carefully slipping an arm beneath Ciri's knees and lifting her with him as he stands. Accustomed to years of being carried up the winding stairs of the keep after falling asleep by the big hearth, she barely even stirs. "I'll take her to her room."

Emhyr gets that look of wonder on his face once more, even allowing himself a fond little smile. "Very well," he nods, moving to get the door for Geralt. 

"I'll come back after I find some food," says Geralt. "I'm fucking starving. Never got dinner before you went on your little sabbatical."

Emhyr huffs. "Nor did I. Stay, and I will have food brought here."

Geralt raises an eyebrow, surprised and amused by Emhyr's sudden hospitality, and nods his agreement anyway. Maybe parenthood is a good look on him after all. 

* * *

By the time their last gwent match comes to an end, with yet another infuriating loss for Geralt, it's pushing midnight. The grounds outside are glowing under the direct light of the moon, not a soul in sight. 

Emhyr appraises his cards, looking quite pleased with himself. "I expect we should be sleeping," he says. "The attendants will be around to wake us at dawn."

Geralt winces and nods his agreement. He thought his days of dragging himself up after four or five hours of sleep were behind him by now, but it seems he's got a few more left in him. 

"Right," he says, gathering up his deck and stretching the stiffness out of his limbs. "Then I'll just…" 

He pauses, realizing for the first time that he doesn't know where he's supposed to sleep. Only Emhyr's bedroom is warded, not any of the various attached rooms contained in his suite, so he shouldn’t sleep anywhere else. Geralt can't risk being locked out of the bedroom should an attack somehow take place inside, so he can't claim any of the comfortable chairs in the study. As Emhyr casts him a sideways glance and wanders off to his room, Geralt discovers that indeed there is only the one bed present, and though he gives the place a good once-over no other furniture appears for him. 

It wouldn't be the first time he's shared a bed with a friend, an acquaintance, or even a relative stranger that he doesn't particularly like. It _would_ be the first time he's shared a bed with an emperor, and though he generally makes a point of treating Emhyr as no different from a commoner, he just can't shake the feeling that it's somehow different. 

To his relief, Emhyr is as quick as always to begin ordering him around, beginning with an odd look as he leans against the doorframe. 

"What are you doing, witcher?" he asks, exasperated.

Geralt nods at the bed. "Going to sleep."

Emhyr gives him a withering glare. "Go sleep on the chaise in the study. I am certain you've slept in worse places."

"Yeah, probably, but I can't guard you if I'm locked out of your room," he points out. "Also, I don't know what a chaise is."

Emhyr rolls his eyes and turns around, working at the clasp on his chain of office. "Sleep on the floor, if you must," he grumbles. "There are blankets in the wardrobe."

"I'm blown away by His Majesty's hospitality," Geralt says sarcastically, but pulls open the wardrobe to grab his blankets anyway. He lays one out on the rug, opposite Emhyr's preferred side of the bed, and keeps the other to cover himself. He considers a jaunt back to his room to grab a set of nightclothes, but decides it isn't worth the effort and simply strips out of his doublet and trousers, leaving himself comfortably in his smallclothes. The doublet, he folds to act as a pillow, both his swords propped against the wardrobe to his right. It really isn't the worst place he's ever slept in. 

Once he's settled down on his makeshift bedroll, sitting with his elbow folded on Emhyr's bed and his chin propped on top, it hits him how unnaturally empty and quiet the room is. He's spent enough time with royalty to know they've got servants for everything: cooking and serving, paperwork, entertainment and sex, cleaning, grooming and more, including people whose sole job it is to dress and undress their ruler. There's even a little rope hanging by the wall next to the bed, used to summon an attendant, but Emhyr doesn't pull it. Geralt watches with mild curiosity as he works through all his many buttons by himself, several layers' worth of them, until he's left in a light chemise and hose. He casts a sour look at Geralt and begins meticulously folding his clothes, setting them in a neat pile on top of a chest of drawers. Though Geralt knows he has plenty of nightclothes right next to him, he doesn't change.

"Never took you for modest," he comments, idly running a finger along the embroidery in the quilt. Little golden suns—never let it be said that Nilfgaardians aren't committed to their aesthetic. 

Emhyr deigns this with a raised eyebrow, and nothing more. 

"Don't you have a bunch of servants to do this for you?" he asks. "I mean, you know I've gotten tangled up with kings and queens before. Thought you all loved making a bunch of poor boys do things for you."

With a quiet huff of laughter, Emhyr busies himself with the velvet-lined case on his dresser, carefully arranging his chain of office in its place. "I do know of your unfortunate preoccupation with Northern royalty," he agrees. "I also know you have noticed by now that I prefer to do many things myself that others would leave to servants."

"Sure," Geralt shrugs. "You're a hell of a perfectionist. But an emperor, folding his own clothes?"

"It is not difficult," Emhyr points out. "For a very long time I owned no clothes worth folding." He gently closes the case, and for a long moment he just stares at the fine wood under his fingers, silent. "The answer is easy, Geralt, nothing you have not guessed," he says quietly. "There is simply no one I could trust to undress me."

Geralt tilts his head, an odd little ache setting up residence in his chest as he watches Emhyr studiously avoid looking at him. He already seems so vulnerable without a few layers, a knife and a livery collar between him and the world, washed pale by the silver light from his window; Geralt never realized just how thorough the disguise was. The chemise does little to hide his figure, and he's significantly thinner than he looks with all his robes on—well-muscled, sure, but tending towards lean in a way that makes Geralt wonder whether he gets enough to eat. His hair looks greyer, the shadows under his eyes darker. This, Geralt realizes, is one of those increasingly common glimpses of the Emhyr who isn't emperor, and he still doesn't really know what to do with them. 

"Not even Mererid?" he asks, with a little crooked smile. "He threw himself between you and a pissed-off witcher's beard, y'know. Pretty sure he'd do anything for you."

To his surprise, Emhyr smiles back, just for a moment. 

"No," he murmurs, "not Mererid. He is loyal, yes, and a very poor liar. But he is an employee, and the loyalty of an employee is bought—in coin or charisma, it does not matter." He glances at Geralt, and Geralt is struck by the exhaustion in his eyes. "The Usurper once served my father, after all."

For some ungodly reason, Geralt feels compelled to fix it. "I'm not for sale," he offers, before he can stop himself. 

Emhyr goes very still, and Geralt wonders whether he's made a grave misstep. Then the tension drains from his posture, and he lets his hands fall from the wooden box. Wordlessly, he picks one of the many pillows from his bed and tosses it onto the floor next to Geralt, before climbing under the covers, facing away from him. 

Geralt chuckles. "Goodnight to you too, Emhyr," he says, replacing his doublet with the pillow. He curls up to the scent of sandalwood, and sleep finds him easily. 

As on so many nights, however, it cannot keep him for long. He wakes slowly, groggily, to the sound of blankets shifting around. The acrid stench of fear hits his tongue a moment later and jolts him fully awake; he's got his hand on the hilt of his steel sword before he even completes his survey of the room—before he even realizes that there is no threat.

"Emhyr?" he asks, voice hoarse with sleep. "What–" 

Emhyr is sitting up in bed, struggling to free himself from the tangled sheets. As Geralt watches, confused and tired, he gets to his feet and staggers to the full-length mirror in the corner, catching himself heavily against the wall. Through the mirror Geralt watches him frantically touch his face, his hair, his eyes wide and lips parted as he fights for breath; he starts trying to undo the ties of his shirt, but his hands are shaking so hard that he can't grip them. Geralt can hear his pounding heartbeat in the quiet of the room. It registers in his sleep-deprived mind that Emhyr must've had a nightmare, and a nasty one at that. 

A couple months ago, Geralt would've laughed at the concept. Now it makes him feel vaguely sick to see him in such a panic. He's about to get up and cross the room when Emhyr finally gives up on the ties of his shirt and simply tugs it over his head. Geralt freezes. 

Somewhere in his subconscious mind he always figured Emhyr would have a few scars. A nick from a sword here and there, perhaps an arrow wound. He was wrong. Emhyr is covered in them, dozens of poorly-healed cuts streaking from shoulder to shoulder, all down his back. There are clusters of smaller pockmarks as well, gathered near his spine and shoulders. Geralt can't fathom where those came from, but he knows the mark of a whip when he sees it. 

For a moment, Geralt just can't reconcile the sight in front of him: Emhyr var Emreis, the White Flame Dancing on the Barrows of his Enemies, half-naked and shaking with pure terror, looking himself over like he can't believe he's really human. Then he shoves it out of mind. Whoever Emhyr might be under that mask, Geralt wants to help. 

"Hey," he says, quickly pulling himself up and moving around the bed. "Hey, Emhyr."

Emhyr's eyes snap to him. He stills with his shirt clutched to his chest, his back heaving with each laboured breath, watching him in the mirror like a hunted hare. 

"You're alright," Geralt murmurs, slowly stepping closer. "It’s just me. You're in the castle. You're–"

"I _know,_ " Emhyr snaps, rounding on him with a ferocity that has Geralt stepping right back. "Get out."

Geralt blinks. "What–"

" _Out, witcher!_ " he snarls. "Get the fuck out, _now!_ " 

He only hesitates a second longer. He lifts his hands placatingly, his throat tightening with sadness as he retreats, eyes averted from Emhyr's furious glare. 

"Look," he says quietly, just outside. "If you need–" 

Without a word, Emhyr slams the door in his face. 

Geralt stares at the grain of the wood, stunned. The lock clicks into place. A moment later he hears the bed creak, followed by the telltale muffled gasps of Emhyr sobbing into his pillow. 

Dazedly, Geralt makes his way to his own rooms and curls up in an armchair by the window. He doesn’t get back to sleep. 


	4. Chapter 4

The following morning is thoroughly miserable, and Emhyr would know. He has experienced some miserable mornings. 

He stands in the shade of the arch leading out into the grounds, Ciri at his side. They watch in the growing morning light as the stablehands hook up a team of horses to his carriage, various servants bustling around them to pack a week’s worth of provisions and paperwork into a wagon. Captain von Naellun is giving a briefing to a doubled complement of guards. All seems to be in order, though the witcher is nowhere to be seen. Admittedly, he’s a bit grateful for that. 

“Are you alright?” Ciri asks, her voice low so no one but him can hear. 

Emhyr glances her way. “Why would you ask?”

She shrugs. “You seem… Well, no offence, but you kind of look like shit. Did you sleep at all?”

He feels like shit as well. After his rather embarrassing outburst towards Geralt, he never got back to sleep. His head aches, his eyes are burning and it’s a struggle to maintain anything resembling an acceptable demeanour. He lets the concern in her voice wash over him, swallowing the instinct to hate it and focusing on how touching he finds it. It’s so easy for her to care for people, and he’s so unused to being cared for; it’s a big change. Overwhelming. 

“I slept some,” he says carefully. “You need not worry yourself.” He knows quite well that he’s not worthy of it. 

“Father,” she warns. “No lies or half-truths, you promised.”

Emhyr sets his jaw. “I did,” he mutters. They’ve had many a discussion about how to mend their relationship, how to get used to each other as father and daughter, and that was one of the conditions. At the time, he was not aware that Ciri would use it to get him to  _ talk  _ about his  _ feelings, _ but he cannot deny that it’s been good for them. 

For his image, not so much. 

She tolerates his silence well until he manages to formulate an answer. 

“I… slept for an hour. Perhaps two.”

“Father!” she says, dismayed. 

He waves a hand. “I am fine, Cirilla, it’s enough.”

“It is not! Fuck’s sake,” she huffs. 

He sneaks a glance at her, amused by the frustrated pout on her face. 

It slips into gentle sympathy all too soon. "Nightmares?" she asks quietly. 

He looks away, his brow furrowing as he reminds himself firmly that she doesn't ask out of a desire to probe at his weaknesses. "Yes."

"I'm sorry." 

After a beat, her smaller hand finds its way into his, their fingers twining together. His poor mood eases in an instant.

"Geralt stayed with you last night, yes?" she asks. "I would have assumed he'd come down to the grounds with you."

"Ah," Emhyr winces. "He stayed until… I awoke. I regret to admit I sent him out rather rudely." 

"I see," she says, understanding. "Well, he'll be down soon then. He does enjoy showing up to everything just a bit too late."

He hums his agreement. For some time they lapse into companionable silence, watching the proceedings. Her hand is a grounding weight, helping him shake off the last of the night’s panic. He wonders, briefly, whether it’s wise to be seen showing such fondness in public, but concludes it can only serve to express his confidence in her as a leader. Her next few weeks will be hard enough without mutters that he regrets his decision to leave her in charge. And he knows, in some quiet part of his mind that he doesn’t much want to acknowledge, that he’s starting to lose the desire to appear to the public as the ruthless, cold battlemaster they know. One way or another, he’ll be off the throne within the year. Perhaps they could even muster up some sympathy for a father, if not an emperor. 

“You know he would’ve helped you, right?” Ciri says quietly. “He knows what it’s like.”

Emhyr grits his teeth against the instinctive swell of hostility caused by that thought, none of it towards Cirilla. “Perhaps.”

“I just think it’d be easier for you if you let him,” she continues. He hears the hint of laughter in her voice. “You  _ are  _ going to be sleeping together, after all.”

Emhyr’s gaze snaps to her in surprise. “We most certainly will not,” he says sternly, which sends her into a fit of giggles. He sighs long-sufferingly and wonders how Geralt managed this for so long. 

“Well, do at least try to get some actual sleep,” she says, once her amusement has passed. “No work past dusk.”

“Past midnight,” Emhyr counters. 

“Deal!”

Out of the corner of his eye, he spots Geralt slinking off towards the stables, carrying a couple bags of his own equipment and looking distinctly like he doesn’t want to be spotted. He probably doesn’t, Emhyr reasons, a twinge of shame warming his cheeks. He can hardly blame the witcher for not wanting to be around him after last night’s ordeal. He doesn’t much feel like being around the witcher, either. 

“I expect that’s my cue to get to work,” Ciri says, having seen Geralt as well. She releases his hand to wrap her arms around his neck in a quick hug. To his own satisfaction, Emhyr reacts in a reasonable amount of time and with far more certainty, embracing her with a funny fluttering in his chest. 

“Is this to become a regular occurrence, then?” he murmurs. 

“If you’d like,” she says cheekily. 

He smiles, comforted by the fact that she can’t see. “I would. Very much.”

Ciri draws back after pressing a brief kiss to his cheek. “I must say goodbye to Geralt,” she says. “He’ll be getting Roach ready. He won’t be long.”

Emhyr nods. “Good luck, Cirilla,” he says quietly. “I have every confidence in your skills.”

She beams at him. “Good luck to you as well. And do at least  _ try  _ to get along with him. Perhaps think about an apology? I won’t have you murdering each other before the week is out.”

He inclines his head, despite how thoroughly unappealing he finds the concept. “As you wish.” 

Ciri goes dashing off across the grounds, following Geralt’s path to the stables. Emhyr hesitates, wondering whether he should attempt to apologize sooner rather than later, but ultimately Geralt’s demeanour and his own exhausted irritation make up his mind. He suspects he’ll regret anything he says to the witcher in this state, if only for Ciri’s sake. Clearly the witcher has no desire to talk to him at the moment anyway, and that’s fine. He hasn’t a clue what to say. 

* * *

Summer is well on its way in the south, and Geralt shuts his eyes as he rides to savour a deep breath of the sweet morning air. Dew still clings to the grasses, the sun having barely crested the horizon. Insects chirp and whir in the fields to either side of the stone path heading away from the City of Golden Towers, and birds sing in a far-off copse of trees. The steady breeze heralds a cool day, and on behalf of the guards in their black plate armour, Geralt is glad. 

It's nice to be outside again. Even a couple days in the palace had him missing the wilderness, especially given the whirlwind of activity that surrounded him there. He wishes fervently that he'd learned his lesson from the previous assassination attempts in which he got tangled up. Shockingly, it never ends well for him. And this one in particular… Well, he has every confidence that there will be no regicide involved this time, but he also has a sneaking suspicion that it's going to stick to him for a lot longer than the others. Etiquette lessons, senate meetings, titles and duties and manners and fancy clothes; he doesn't know if the Continent will ever forget the time the White Wolf supposedly hooked up with the Emperor of Nilfgaard, got himself a cozy court position and then fucked off with him on a romantic vacation to Toussaint. Not least of all because he's not sure he actually  _ wants  _ to give up his title after this whole mess is over. He hasn't yet figured out whether keeping up this fiction is worth it to ensure he'll always, indisputably be considered Ciri's family. 

And then there's Emhyr himself. That man makes up a whole separate conundrum all on his own, maybe two. Geralt is still idly replaying the events of last night in his mind, so busy considering these whole new sides of Emhyr he's getting to know that he can't figure out why he even cares. He supposes it's to be expected, really, now that Emhyr and Ciri are finally growing closer. He meant what he said—he thinks the effort Emhyr is putting into being what Ciri needs in a father is admirable—and maybe he can't help feeling something for a man his daughter is clearly starting to love. 

He thought perhaps Emhyr might be starting to like him as well, which would be very convenient if they're to coparent in the future, but being locked out of his room last night didn't do much to support that impression. He didn't get any sleep afterwards, and it hasn't left him in a favourable mood. He's never appreciated being ordered around, especially by Emhyr, and especially when it costs him precious sleep. But on the other hand…

He can't get the image of Emhyr alone and terrified out of his head. It's too familiar to him. He knows exactly what it's like to wake up in a panic and lash out at the first person he can find. He knows that Emhyr has seen things truly worthy of nightmares, and that he's very privileged to have that knowledge and still be alive. When he thinks on it, he can't bring himself to hold Emhyr's reaction against him. In fact, if he's being particularly honest with himself, what he really wants to do is help. 

He's still fucking tired though. He hasn't decided which should take precedence. 

In an effort to keep himself awake, he urges Roach a bit faster and comes up beside Captain Naellun at the front of the procession. 

"Any idea how long we'll be on the road for?" he asks. In the chaos of the last twenty-four hours, Emhyr never got him a copy of his itinerary. 

"We hope to arrive at Beauclair Palace in five days' time, sir," says Naellun. "I have ridden this route many times, however, and at a good pace we may arrive in four."

"Hm." Privately, Geralt wishes it were a longer trip. He isn't looking forward to facing Anna Henrietta again, and Syanna even less, if possible. He wonders whether he might find time to head down to the cemetery, see if Regis is hanging around there again. 

"If I may, sir," Naellun starts, and Geralt tenses up instinctively. He hates when the staff get tentative around him; it always means awkward questions. "Did His Majesty not offer to ride with you in his carriage? An emperor's lover would typically–" 

"I like riding," Geralt interrupts, before he has to hear any more. "I'm… I'm a witcher, still. I hate sitting in carriages. Can't look around, can't hear properly, can't smell. I'd probably drive Emhyr crazy, anyway." He leans forward and gives Roach's neck a good scratch. "He gave me the horse, if that helps."

"A thoughtful gift," Naellun nods. 

Geralt opens his mouth, shuts it, and realizes it's actually true. Even though he would've happily left the palace with Ciri and nothing else, Emhyr felt the need to repay his debt with something truly valuable to a witcher. 

"We gonna stop for lunch?" he asks, changing the subject. 

"Yes, sir. We have orders to travel until midday before breaking."

"Emhyr sure drives you hard, huh?"

Naellun huffs a laugh. "I believe I shall refrain from commenting. I would not want to find myself on the gallows for slander against my commanding officer."

"Eh, don't worry about it. I'll get you a pardon."

For Geralt, accustomed as he is to constant travel, noon arrives quickly. The terrain has begun to transition from plains to sparse forest, and Naellun calls for the procession to halt near a shady cluster of trees along the bank of a stream. The guards nudge their horses into perfect formation, waiting for the emperor's permission to dismount before they get their break. Geralt watches, committing the routine to memory, as the coachman climbs out of his seat and starts to open the door for Emhyr. He pauses halfway through, freezing as though in shock, and then casts a pleading look over his shoulder at Geralt. Raising an eyebrow in response, Geralt swings himself out of the saddle and heads over to join him. 

He understands the man's hesitation at once. Emhyr is slumped rather inelegantly against the opposite side of the carriage, fast asleep. Naturally, none of Emhyr's servants, save perhaps for Mererid, would dare wake him up. Geralt resists the urge to laugh, his remaining irritation slipping steadily away; clearly he isn't the only one suffering from a lack of sleep. 

He waves away the driver and the guards, certain Emhyr would be grateful for a moment alone to compose himself. "At ease, or whatever. Go eat, water your horses. We'll be along."

Apparently Geralt holds some authority over Emhyr's Impera Brigade, because after exchanging a few glances with each other they do as he says. The coachman leaves as well, heading round the back of the carriage to help unpack the rations. Geralt steps up to perch on the edge of the seat, and places a hand on Emhyr's arm. 

"Wake up, sleepyhead," he says teasingly, giving him a gentle shake. 

Emhyr wakes with a jolt and a sharp intake of breath, blinking confusedly at his surroundings. As soon as he spots Geralt, he relaxes again with a quiet disgruntled noise, slowly pushing himself into an upright position. 

"Never in my life," he mumbles, "have I been called that."

"First time for everything," Geralt says, watching with a distinct sense of joy as Emhyr yawns and rubs a hand over his face, trying to shake off his tiredness. He's kind of adorable like this, Geralt must admit. Unguarded. 

"Mm. Where are we?" Emhyr begins straightening his robes and fixing his hair, getting his imperial mask firmly back in place. 

"A few hours out," Geralt answers. He slips off the seat so Emhyr can get out and see for himself, offering a hand to help him down. Emhyr takes it distractedly and half-stumbles as he gets on his feet, squinting in the bright noon sun. 

He takes a deep breath, in and out, and as if on command he's suddenly composed once more. "I see you took the liberty of dismissing my guards," he comments, stepping away from the carriage to take in his surroundings. 

"Yeah," says Geralt. "Didn't figure you'd want any of them bothering you."

Emhyr arches an eyebrow. "And yet being bothered by you would simply delight me?"

"Obviously," he says airily. "If it didn't, you would've had my head years ago."

With a huff of laughter, Emhyr shuts the carriage door and starts off for the congregation of guards and attendants. Geralt follows, pausing to scratch the nose of one of the horses. 

A respectable spread has been laid out on a large boulder by the stream: cured meats, bread, cheeses, and fruits, more than enough to feed a dozen hungry guards, a few servants, an emperor and a witcher. Geralt is impressed. As they approach, one of Emhyr's servants hurries to put together a heaping plate of food, complete with a chunk of honeycomb that makes Geralt's mouth water. Emhyr accepts the plate with thanks, and Geralt reaches for one of the waxed cloths to begin assembling his own meal, only to be stopped by Emhyr's shoulder nudging his. 

"Come, witcher," he mutters, and leaves with his food. 

Geralt, feeling petulant at having been denied his lunch, snatches a sausage off the table and follows. Emhyr leads him to a shady spot beneath a tree, away from the others, and settles down on the grass. 

"Generally," Emhyr says, his expression dry as Geralt takes a seat next to him, "we would be expected to share our food. Do at least  _ try  _ to maintain the fiction that we are passably familiar with each other. I do not wish to hear mutterings of your true purpose on this excursion."

Geralt brightens up immediately. "Well, how would I know?" he asks, with no real annoyance; he's too busy taking in all the different things he has to pick from. 

Emhyr sets the plate between them and lounges back against the tree, selecting a piece of hard cheese to start with. The shift means that his shoulder is right beside Geralt's. Geralt decides to take advantage of it and leans against Emhyr to better reach the food. Emhyr grumbles, and Geralt ignores him. He’s very good at it. 

"Oh fuck," he mumbles, around a mouthful of ham, sausage, and cheddar—things that probably shouldn't be combined, according to some prick or another, but they're so good that he doesn't care. "This is incredible."

"Really?" Emhyr sounds curious. "It is hardly meant to compare to our meals in the palace. And with your recent stay in Toussaint, I would have assumed you had the chance to taste such things many times over."

Geralt shrugs. "I was pretty busy. Didn't get a chance to really sample the local cuisine. Besides–" he grabs a wedge of cheese, which squishes and sticks to his fingers– "hunting down a higher vampire doesn't really make you want to savour your meals."

Emhyr hums his understanding. When Geralt glances his way, he can practically see the gears turning in his mind; he hasn't heard Geralt's account of the hunt, and Geralt knows he'll be desperately curious. He loves collecting information. 

To Geralt's surprise, however, he refrains from asking about it. 

"I expect you will be able to remedy that on this trip," he comments. "Beauclair's chefs are quite remarkable, I must say." 

"Mm." Geralt tosses a strawberry into his mouth, savours the incredible burst of sweetness. "And their guards?"

Emhyr's demeanour turns solemn. "As skilled as anyone would expect them to be," he says. He glances sideways. "I expect you could cut down a dozen unscathed."

Geralt nearly inhales his food, leaning away to raise his eyebrows at Emhyr. "Feeling complimentary today, are we?" he asks with a lopsided grin. Apparently a nap has much improved his mood. 

Waving him off annoyedly, Emhyr returns his attention to the food. "It is a fact, nothing more. I would suggest you do not let it go to your ego."

"Oh, yeah? Yeah, you're one to talk." Geralt snorts, and settles back down against the tree to pile various meats, cheeses, and a grape onto a slice of crusty bread. Only after he devours his creation does he realize that the food is mostly gone, and mostly gone to him. 

He feels a twinge of guilt, watching Emhyr take his time with his modest portion. "Er," he starts. "Sorry. I didn't realize I took so much–" 

"Nonsense," Emhyr interrupts him. "The majority was intended for you. My attendants are familiar with your… unique appetite. If I want more, I need only ask."

Geralt snorts. It's true that he tends to eat much more than the average human, and that he's been suspiciously well fed on his last few visits to Nilfgaard. He still has difficulty comprehending the fact that he doesn't need to ration his food, and certainly doesn't need to ensure Emhyr always has enough to eat. Years of skipping meals to feed Ciri left their mark on him. 

Yet another thing he hasn't been able to indulge in some time is his somewhat regrettable sweet tooth. Emhyr notices him eyeing the honeycomb, and gestures towards it. 

"Go ahead," he says. "I expect you would savour it more than I."

Geralt narrows his eyes. Regardless of what Emhyr says, he knows the man won't go back for seconds and delay his own schedule, and after last night he's certain a bit of dessert would do him good. 

"Split it," he decides. "Take half."

"Very well," Emhyr agrees, and Geralt could swear he finds the offer funny. He picks up the piece of honeycomb and carefully breaks it down the middle, spilling honey all down his fingers and palm. Geralt accepts his half, bites into it and grins. It's just as delicious as he remembers. 

He's chewing happily on the wax when Emhyr finishes his piece, brings his sticky hand to his mouth and begins licking the honey from his palm. 

Geralt stops chewing in a conscious effort not to choke, frozen still as he watches. The sight is… intriguing. Utterly un-imperial in a way Geralt never even considered the man might be capable of, let alone  _ imagined. _ Suddenly his armour feels a bit stifling.

Perceptive as always, Emhyr notices his attention and pauses, eyebrow raised in question. Geralt clears his throat, wishing for a drink to wash down all the sugar. 

"Emhyr var Emreis, licking his fingers?" he teases. "Bit undignified, isn't it? Very Northern."

Rolling his eyes, Emhyr quickly sucks his fingers clean and rises. "I dislike wasting food," he says. 

"Hypocrite!" Geralt stands with him, quite grateful for the distraction. "You were just telling me how much of it you have."

"True," he acknowledges. His gaze turns wistful. "An old habit. I have never quite managed to break it."

"Not so bad, as habits go."

Emhyr nods, pleased with his agreement. They walk to the stream to wash off the remaining stickiness, and Geralt wonders whether anyone has ever dared to try to convince Emhyr that he'll never have to beg for food again. 

The rest of the day passes in the same slog as most of Geralt’s days, his mind occupied with the landscape and weather, Beauclair, vineyards and assassins and Emhyr asleep in his carriage, and, once, one of Dandelion’s songs, which got stuck in his head for over an hour and nearly drove him mad. The evening brings out the biting insects. They don’t tend to bother Geralt—he has it on good authority that he tastes terrible to any blood-sucking creatures, on account of the mutations—but do go after the horses in swarms, kicking off a steady cacophony of swishing tails and snorts. It’s nearly pitch black before they finally stop for the night, as per Emhyr’s orders; they pull up on the side of the road, endless plains stretching out in all directions, and the soldiers start pitching the tents. Dinner is set up under one of them, a hearty meal of smoked fish, potatoes and various vegetables, some of which Geralt doesn’t recognize at all. Emhyr names them for him over another shared meal, spent sitting on a blanket in the grass. 

It’s quaint and pleasant, exactly the opposite of life in the palace, and Geralt gets the impression that Emhyr actually enjoys the change of pace. Back in the city, he spends much of his very limited spare time walking in the extensive gardens and conservatories; here, he gets the real thing, bugs and all. 

“You like it out here, don’t you?” Geralt asks, taking another stalk of something Emhyr calls asparagus. 

Emhyr looks at him like he’s surprised by the deduction, and nods. “It is a strange transition,” he says, “to go from vagabond to emperor. I have always enjoyed travelling, and rarely have the opportunity to do so.”

“Hm,” says Geralt. “Maybe you’ll get to do it more often, after Ciri takes things over.”

“Maybe so.” Emhyr tilts his head, regarding the faint lingering glow on the horizon with a certain fondness. Then he turns to watch the guards splitting up into groups, half retiring to their tent and half setting up a perimeter around the little camp. “We should retire,” he says. “We will start early tomorrow. The day after we must reach Forgeham to replenish our supplies.” He wrinkles his nose. “And bathe.”

Geralt feels a tinge of regret. As strange as it is, he’s actually coming to like Emhyr’s company, especially away from the stifling atmosphere of the palace. He’s one of the best conversation partners Geralt has had in years. 

He sighs. “Yeah, probably.” Pulling himself to his feet, he takes their empty plate and hands it to the servant who appears at his elbow. He thinks it’s pretty creepy when they do that, but he’s the emperor’s favourite now, and they’re all just as quick to attend to him as they are to Emhyr. He’d best get used to it. 

That thought leads him to a realization, quickly confirmed when he glances around and notes that there’s only one tent left unoccupied, meant for him and Emhyr to share. It’s the obvious conclusion, of course. Lovers share beds. And he wouldn’t even mind that much, except he’s pretty sure that Emhyr  _ would.  _

It’s understandable. He’s always known Emhyr to be a very private person, ever-conscious of his surroundings, his place in the minds of the people around him. It’s a survival tactic, and an effective one for someone as quick as he is, but it’s exhausting. His nights alone are probably the only respite he gets. And now Geralt has a definitive answer: Emhyr has no desire to share his bed with his bodyguard, doubly so when a nightmare strikes. 

Geralt has never had any qualms about imposing himself on the emperor before, but he knows instinctively that reopening this discussion would be a step too far. He’s curious, of course. He wants to ask about last night’s debacle, he wants to make it clear to Emhyr that he’s not a threat, and he certainly wouldn’t mind sleeping in a nice cozy tent for once. But Emhyr gave him the courtesy of not asking about the Beast of Beauclair, so Geralt will give him this. 

“Gonna do paperwork all night?” he asks, trying for a playful tone. “Or are you actually gonna sleep?”

Emhyr sighs deeply. “I did promise Cirilla to refrain from working past midnight.”

“Wow,” he says. “Can’t believe you agreed to that.”

“No, nor can I.”

“Go on, then. Get all your imperialness done.” Geralt waves to his tent, already starting to walk towards where Roach is tied for the night. 

Emhyr does not, in fact, go on, instead watching with a crease in his brow as Geralt retrieves his bedroll and waterskin from his saddlebags. He's still there when Geralt gets back, and Geralt is forced to an awkward stop in front of him. 

"You intend to sleep outside?" he asks. 

"…Yeah?" Geralt gets the vague sense that this is a bad thing, but Emhyr is unreadable. "Can't guard you too well from inside a tent," he adds, too low for anyone else to hear, because the tension is gnawing at him. 

Emhyr eyes him a moment longer. Probably running every single risk and benefit of letting Geralt sleep alone, calculating how much quicker he could intercept an assassin from outside, thinking up every rumour that it could feasibly start and following them through to the potential consequences. Geralt gets tired just watching him think sometimes. 

Finally, he acquiesces, turning towards his tent. "Please refrain from joining the Impera, should the desire for a roof strike you," he says drily. "It would be scandalous."

Geralt snorts. "Fine. Night then."

Emhyr dips his head in return, and slips through the tent flaps, tying them shut behind him. A lantern flickers to life inside, and Geralt watches the vague shadow of Emhyr sitting at his little desk shift and dance on the wall. After a moment he refocuses and drops his waterskin, undoing the ties on his bedroll and flinging it out across the ground beside the tent. Placing his swords neatly at his side, he kneels on the bedroll and gets into a meditative position. 

By a small campfire, a few off-duty guards talk and laugh quietly, ever-respectful of their emperor settling down for the night across the makeshift camp. Two stand by the horses, watching the dark road carefully for bandits or armed travellers. Four more seem to have arranged themselves surreptitiously around Emhyr's tent, close enough to be at the entrance in a second if need be but far enough to give him the illusion of privacy, at least. Geralt suspects Emhyr gave orders for his guards to keep more of a distance than usual; he has Geralt to keep him alive now, and the timing would give the impression that it's because he doesn't want them eavesdropping on him and his  _ favourite, _ since Geralt isn't really supposed to be acting as a bodyguard at all. He supposes it doesn't work so well if Emhyr doesn't actually want him in the same bed, but no one will ever question him about it. 

The rest of the guards are getting ready for their half-night of sleep before the shift turns over. Various servants are moving about the camp, packing up dishes and leftover food, caring for the horses, cleaning dirt and mud off the carriage. Geralt watches them come and go, and wonders whether any of them could be the informant making the assassination attempts possible. Part of him doubts it. This is a group of Emhyr's favoured guards among the Impera and some of his most trusted servants, the best of the best, and Emhyr has a way of surrounding himself with only the most devoted people—or, at least, of ruthlessly excising any treachery before it can grow and spread. As such, they're all well-paid and well-treated. He knows many of them personally, and he can't imagine any of them turning on Emhyr for money or shifting political allegiances. 

More likely, it's someone left behind at the castle. A newer guard, he imagines, or a disgruntled attendant, or a minor noble with some family-related grudge against the var Emreis line. Nilfgaard certainly never runs out of those. And  _ that _ sends a sudden jolt of anxiety through him; all the attacks have clearly been aimed at Emhyr so far, but now Ciri is alone at the palace, surrounded by people who could be spying on her, plotting to kill her. What if their employer decides to go after her as well?

Geralt grits his teeth and tries his best to force the thought out of mind. He's stuck on the road with Emhyr now, there's nothing he can do about it, and Ciri is more than capable of fending off a direct attack of the sort that has been thrown at Emhyr, if it comes to that. He shuts his eyes and slows his breathing, trying to force himself to meditate while he contemplates all the things he'd like to do to whoever would dare betray Ciri, and wonders when he might next be able to check in on her by megascope. 

He never does lie down to sleep, and nor does he quite manage a proper meditative state, worked up as he is, but he's glad for the excuse to keep a close eye on the camp while Emhyr sleeps, despite his own exhaustion. If he happens to notice that Emhyr doesn't stir once throughout the night, then it's just coincidence, and nothing more. 


	5. Chapter 5

"Looks like rain."

Emhyr glances up from the letter he's penning, fixing Geralt with a dry scowl. "I did not give you permission to enter," he mutters, returning to his writing. 

"You don't give me permission to do anything," Geralt points out, wandering over to the small chest next to Emhyr's desk and sitting heavily on it. A muscle in Emhyr's jaw twitches. "You're up early."

"The war does not pause because I have left the capital." Emhyr signs his parchment with a flourish and fans it in the air until it's dry, then carefully folds it and seals it with the imprint of his signet ring. "I am aware of the weather. Is there something you require?"

Geralt shrugs. "Just making small talk."

"Well, if you must, then stay through breakfast. And finish this." Emhyr thrusts another letter at him, half-done, and a quill.

"What is it?" Geralt straightens the parchment and scans through a couple paragraphs of Emhyr's delicate, swirling handwriting, probably trained into him since he could hold a quill. 

"A letter to Cirilla. I assumed you would want to send your regards as well."

He blinks. "Huh. Thanks." Dragging the chest closer to the desk, much to Emhyr's consternation, he scribbles out a quick greeting and asks her how things have been going, though he's sure Emhyr has already asked in much more specific terms. "Plans for the day?"

"Ride for Forgeham until the storm breaks," he says simply. As he finishes up his work, an attendant slips into the tent with a platter of food and tea, sets it gently on the far side of the desk, and retreats with a deep bow. 

"I don't think we'll have too long," Geralt says. "Looks like the rain will start long before nightfall."

"Disappointing," says Emhyr, pouring two cups of tea. He hands one to Geralt. "I do not wish to–"

"Wait," Geralt interrupts, shooting out a hand to stop him from raising the cup to his mouth. He picks up his own, sniffs carefully at the steam rising from the tea, then grabs the pot and gives it the same inspection, dread curling in his stomach. The smell is faint, mostly masked by the strong Nilfgaardian brew, but unmistakable; it's the same acrid musk Geralt smelled on the weapons in the dungeon, and on the assassin in the courtyard. 

One look tells him that Emhyr has already guessed his conclusion. He sets down the cup well away from him and takes Geralt's as well, oddly calm for a man who just came a second from ingesting poison. Actually, he looks almost pleased. Like a bloodhound on the trail of a fox. 

_ What the fuck, Emhyr? _ thinks Geralt, exasperatedly. 

"I had wondered whether this would happen," Emhyr says mildly. 

Geralt sighs, his heart still pounding with adrenaline. "Fuck's sake," he mutters. He points a finger at Emhyr's chest. "You should be way more worked up about this, by the way."

"Perhaps," he says, amused, and slides the plate of food over. "Is there any in here?"

Geralt sorts through the breakfast offerings meticulously, but detects no trace of the poison.

"Nothing," he says. "Does this…" 

He trails off as Emhyr begins peeling an orange, apparently completely unbothered by the fact that it's probably been touched by whoever made his tea. He sets his jaw, a stressed sort of anger simmering under his skin. 

"Yes, Geralt," says Emhyr, approving. "This confirms to me that our informant, or one of them, is travelling with us."

"And you're not–" He cuts his exclamation off at the glare from Emhyr, and lowers his voice. "And you're not concerned about this?" he hisses. 

"On the contrary." Emhyr's eyes flash with satisfaction. "Keep your enemies close, after all. The list of possible suspects has just been narrowed to sixteen. If there are any further traitors, the first will lead me to them. Under persuasion, of course."

Geralt looks at him flatly. "Torture, you mean."

"If you like."

Worrying his lip with his teeth, Geralt gets up and begins to pace around the small tent. "Send them back," he urges Emhyr. "Just send them all back, we'll ride on to Toussaint alone. I'm more than capable of defending you from bandits and monsters, you know that, especially when you aren't drawing attention to yourself in a damn royal procession."

"No, Geralt," Emhyr says coolly.

Geralt stops and stares at him, incredulous. " _ No? _ Emhyr, if someone in this camp is plotting to kill you then why the fuck–" 

He holds up a hand, looking unimpressed. "I have already lost the advantage of relative secrecy," he says sternly. "Countless guards, servants and guests witnessed the last attempt. Now, by revealing that I suspect any of the men I have brought with me, you would have me show my last card. Not only that, but you would have me willingly send a highly trusted traitor carrying a deadly poison back to the castle, back to  _ Cirilla, _ who does not possess your sense of smell nor my experience with such matters. 

“This–" he gestures to the tea, still steaming away benignly– "is once more a test of my defences. If it kills me, then the job is done. But if it is detected by the witcher in my company, then it becomes clear that you are a formidable opponent, not the harmless dalliance of an aging emperor. I cannot appear to have brought a bodyguard into a vassal state in which I have agreed to bring no military presence, and so I cannot appear to have any knowledge of this attempt to poison me. I know you are no actor, but you must not reveal to anyone that this has happened. Understood?"

Still fuming, Geralt nods shortly. "Fine. I got the point. But you're making my job really fucking hard, you know that?"

"You expected nothing less," Emhyr says smoothly. 

Geralt huffs, because it's true. 

"Now get on the bedroll."

He freezes, certain he's misheard. "What?"

Outside the tent, grass rustles and metal clatters quietly against metal, signalling the approach of a guard. 

"Get on the bedroll, now," Emhyr hisses, and  _ then  _ Geralt understands with a dreadful clarity. 

He eyes Emhyr's bed for a second longer, glances towards the entrance and then flops down onto the remarkably comfortable pallet, his head resting on several down pillows. "Holy shit, that's soft–" he manages, before Emhyr is standing over him and then straddling his hips and then grabbing his collar in a death grip and– 

His hands fly automatically to Emhyr’s waist as Emhyr crashes their mouths together, utterly unconcerned with the fact that he’s too shocked to reciprocate. For a moment they stay like that, frozen, because admittedly having his lips pressed to those of Emhyr var Emreis—Emperor of Nilfgaard, King of Cintra, Lord of Metinna, Ebbing and Gemmera, Sovereign of Nazair and Vicovaro, the man who once had him and his daughter hunted across the Continent and isn't nearly so scary these days, really—is a bit overwhelming. Then Emhyr smacks his arm and Geralt remembers what he’s supposed to be doing, shuts his eyes and moves. 

Emhyr’s lips are so soft that Geralt can’t pretend for a moment that he’s kissing some girl in a Northern whorehouse—even less so when he parts his lips, lets Emhyr tease the tip of his tongue with his own and realizes he tastes of oranges. That’s pleasant, if nothing else; Geralt hadn’t eaten an orange in years before he turned up in Beauclair, and they’ve quickly become a favourite. He pushes back, licking into Emhyr’s mouth to chase that sweetness, and Emhyr shifts forward to pin him by the shoulders to the bedroll. He’s good, Geralt realizes, he tastes good and he smells good and he approaches this with the exact same thorough, calculated precision with which he decimated the North. Geralt wraps his arms around Emhyr’s waist to complete the picture, and marvels at the surprisingly solid muscle under his palms. 

The tent flaps rustle, and the footsteps come to an abrupt stop. Emhyr pulls away from Geralt and sits up with a hand planted firmly on his chest, a very convincing scowl on his face. 

The guard—Renwyn, Geralt realizes, still reeling—looks terrified. “Y– Your Majesty,” he stammers, then remembers to give a salute. “Your Highness,” he adds to Geralt. “I–”

“Yes?” Emhyr says, his voice low and dangerous. 

He clears his throat and pulls himself together. “The men are ready to begin packing up the camp, Sire. As per your orders–”

“I know my orders,” Emhyr interrupts. He turns back to Geralt and his expression turns convincingly fond. He tilts Geralt’s chin towards him with one crooked finger, and runs a thumb over his glistening lower lip. “Another time,  _ Bleiddin _ .”

Geralt swallows. 

“Dismissed,” says Emhyr, waving a hand at the guard without taking his eyes off Geralt’s. Renwyn salutes hurriedly and backs out of the tent. 

As soon as he’s gone, Emhyr drops the pretence and climbs off of Geralt, taking a handkerchief from his pocket to clean off his thumb. Geralt props himself up on his elbows and licks his lips absently, feeling dazed, as if he’s just received a blow to the head. He can't say he's ever thought about what it might be like to kiss Emhyr—not really, anyway—but all in all, not bad. It didn't feel like ice water trickling into parts of his chest cavity where it definitely shouldn't be, which is approximately what it feels like to be the focus of his best imperious looks, so Geralt can’t complain. It was for a good cause, anyway. He just can't let Ciri hear of it. 

“I expect that should suffice,” Emhyr comments, circling round his desk to double check that his work is satisfactorily complete. “We have now run out of time to enjoy our tea, and Renwyn will be on his way to gossip with the others at the soonest opportunity.”

Geralt shakes his head, bewildered by the way Emhyr always manages to make things so convoluted, and by the fact that he doesn't really mind. “Two birds with one stone, I guess.”

“Indeed.” Emhyr sets the two teacups back on their platter, clearly untouched. “Go prepare your mount. I want to ride out as soon as possible.” He pauses, shooting a glance back at Geralt. “And do ensure you avoid my bedroll until you have bathed, at least. You smell of horse.”

“Nilfgaardian horse,” Geralt points out, as if this is a point in his favour, and to his surprise it draws a snort of laughter out of Emhyr. Considering this a victory, he hauls himself to his feet and grabs an orange off the plate of food, peeling it as he heads out of the tent to pack up his things. 

"Hey–" He stops dead, just inside the tent, as a realization hits him. "Wait. Were you making me share your meals just so you could use me as a taster?"

Emhyr tilts his head, amusement glittering in his eyes. "I told no lie, it is traditional."

Geralt blinks. "You were!"

"From the moment you described the smell of the poison in the courtyard, I knew you would never come close to ingesting it." He gestures pointedly to the tea set. "It was an excellent judgement, if I may say so. Do you wish to eat separately from now on?"

Glaring, Geralt mutters, "No." The worst part is, the arrangement has even been sort of pleasant. "You're still a bastard though."

"Noted," says Emhyr, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards. Geralt suddenly finds himself watching the movement, and wondering what it might take to get him to smile properly again like he did in his office. 

Shaking his head exasperatedly, he ducks out of the tent, popping an orange slice into his mouth as he heads back to his own bedroll. It tastes just as good as before. 

* * *

The storm clouds loom ominously all day before the first flicker of lightning courses across the dark sky. Shortly after, the occasional raindrop starts falling on the procession, making the flightier horses short and toss their heads. Only then does Naellun finally call for a halt, directing the group towards the shelter of a copse of trees as he shouts out instructions to set up the tents as soon as possible. 

Under orders from Emhyr, no one wastes time waiting for the emperor’s dismissal. The coachman opens the carriage for Emhyr amidst a bustle of activity and bows low before hurrying off to help. Emhyr steps out and looks up at the sky, bruised purple and grey and glowing pink on the horizon where the sun is just beginning to set, admiring the scene for just a second before he refocuses. 

On the side of the road, Geralt swings out of the saddle and leads Roach over at a jog, wincing at the feeling of raindrops on the back of his neck. “Looks nasty,” he comments, walking with Emhyr to a particularly thick-leaved oak, where they can stand protected from the sparse rain. 

“It does,” Emhyr says. Above them, a deep rumble of thunder voices its agreement. “We will eat with the others tonight.”

Geralt glances at him, surprised. “Yeah?” He looks away a moment so he can tie Roach to a low, broken tree branch and let her graze. “Y’know, I never really imagined you just… hanging out with your men. It’s not very…” He gestures at all of Emhyr, making his point. 

With an amused huff, Emhyr lets his gaze wander the camp, occasionally tracing an individual for a moment before moving on to the next. “It is intentional. I have nothing personally against mingling with my soldiers, it is good for morale, but it must be done sparingly. A strong sense of hierarchy should always take precedence over familiarity, for they are not my friends.” He finishes his appraisal and looks to Geralt. “As we have seen.”

Geralt winces. It’s true enough, he supposes, but never in his life has he felt the need to establish his superiority over anyone he’s fought with, even though physically it might be accurate. Not often has he even had people to command—or to direct, perhaps, for he can’t really imagine any of his friends truly taking orders from him—but on those rare occasions when he’s had people to keep him company in the heat of battle, he’s always deeply valued the sense of comradeship he shares with them, the knowledge that they all live or die together. Not for the first time, he thinks an emperor’s life must be awfully lonely. 

“They call me ‘Your Highness’,” he says. “I don’t like it.”

“No,” murmurs Emhyr, “I didn’t imagine you would.”

Geralt watches the Impera hurry around the camp like a bunch of little beetles in their black plate armour. “Do you?” he asks. “Like when they call you ‘Your Imperial Majesty’ or whatever.”

Emhyr pauses, considering, then shoots him a wry look. “Depends on the context.”

After a moment’s confusion, Geralt bursts into laughter, shaking his head to get  _ that  _ image out of his mind. “You’re lying!” he says afterwards, still grinning. “You don’t like nobles’ bullshitting, you wouldn’t like that. People probably try it all the time.”

“They have, in the past,” Emhyr admits, sighing wearily. “It is tasteless, at best.”

“Well, Your Imperial Majesty,” teases Geralt, nudging him with his shoulder as he pushes off the tree, “looks like they’re ready over there.”

Emhyr hits him in the arm. 

The meal passes in a surprisingly casual and poison-free manner, for a Nilfgaardian affair. All the off-duty guards gather in the shelter of the largest tent while the servants set out food and ale; they're tense at first with the knowledge that Geralt and Emhyr are seated nearby, but soon enough they're laughing and joking as soldiers are prone to do, occasionally making conversation with Geralt once it becomes clear that the emperor's new concubine is not above socializing with his guards. Emhyr is mostly silent throughout the meal, because he has a way of commanding attention when he speaks and it tends to bring the conversation to a grinding halt. He contents himself with his food and his wine, relaxing gradually into his chair, which causes his shoulder to touch Geralt's for most of the meal because someone took initiative and placed their chairs very close together. Geralt gets the sense that he's enjoying playing second fiddle for once, fading into the background with an imperceptible smile on his face as people talk and tease and drink and laugh around him. It's sort of nice to see; Geralt doesn't imagine he gets this very often. 

When he does eventually stand, everyone snaps to attention. Emhyr waves a hand, looking resigned. 

"As you were, gentlemen," he says, handing his glass to an attendant. "I must retire."

The atmosphere relaxes somewhat, but no one goes back to chatting. Geralt takes it upon himself to break the ice. 

"You gonna sleep or work?" he asks, raising an eyebrow. 

An amused look flickers over Emhyr's face. "Work, I fear." And to Geralt's great surprise, Emhyr bends and kisses his cheek, just a quick brush of his lips. "Carry on," he says to the absolutely silent onlookers, and leaves with his head held high. 

"Night," Geralt says, faintly. 

He must look suitably stunned, because as soon as Emhyr disappears into his tent there's a wolf-whistle from Gwynygh, which triggers a bout of laughter, teasing and further whistling in the slightly tipsy little group. Rolling his eyes, Geralt gets up to return his plate, going a bit out of his way to shove the bold guard gently with his shoulder. 

"To the Great Sun!" laughs Hilarr, from a safe distance, as he raises his mug of ale. "And to His Imperial Highness,  _ Gvaern'truov  _ Geralt aen Emreis, for his remarkable role in helping His Imperial Majesty plough the North!"

Raucous laughter answers as everyone makes their toasts. Geralt can't deny that it's a good one, even as he crosses the tent to engage Hilarr in a brief and playful wrestling match. He steals the guard's ale and downs it in one go as the others cheer and slap his back, then leaves with a triumphant grin despite the number of suggestive comments and noises being thrown his way. It's good to take a break from the whole royalty thing. 

His good mood dampens a bit when he steps out into the storm, which has grown from a sprinkle of rain to a downpour over the course of the meal. He has to hold a hand over his eyes to be able to see as he breaks into a jog towards Roach. The tree provides enough shelter that Geralt decides he might as well set up here, though it’s far from the meagre warmth of the campfire. Fat raindrops fall on his head and soak through his armour as he sets up his bedroll and kneels with a fur blanket thrown over his shoulders, resigning himself to yet another sleepless night. He’s slept in worse storms, but it’s been a long time. It seems he’s lost the ability to tune out the near-constant roar of thunder. 

After some time spent in a shallow meditation, Geralt hears quiet footsteps approaching, a whisper through the grass that a human would never detect over the falling rain. They stop at the end of his pallet, and he opens his eyes to find Emhyr watching him curiously from the shadow of a thick hooded cloak. Underneath, he wears only a dressing gown and slippers. Geralt raises an eyebrow in question, only to wince when it causes rain to drip into his eye. 

“You need not sleep outside in this,” says Emhyr, wrinkling his nose. 

“I do it all the time,” Geralt replies, only half-lying. 

“I know. That is not my point.”

He tilts his head. “You said it’d be  _ scandalous  _ to join the Impera.”

Emhyr rolls his eyes, apparently tired of dancing around the issue. “Come inside. I will not have my bodyguard catching pneumonia before we even arrive in Toussaint.”

With that he turns and leaves, tugging his cloak tight around him as he walks back through the downpour to his tent. 

He knows Geralt can’t catch pneumonia. Geralt is sure of it. Which means, once more, he’s making complicated excuses to avoid admitting that he actually gives a bit of a shit about whether Geralt is miserable all night. It’s sort of nice, in a weird way, and Geralt decides in a moment of impulsivity to take him up on the offer. He’s starting to get itchy from all the wet clothing stuck to his skin. 

He packs up his gear in record time and hurries across the clearing, getting himself absolutely drenched for a second time before he can burst through the tent flaps and tie them behind him, shivering and trying to shake wet hair out of his face. Emhyr is sitting cross-legged on his bedroll, perfectly dry and content, reading a book by the light of the lantern perched on his desk. 

“Do not drip on my belongings,” he says, without looking up. Geralt snorts, just glad to be inside. 

He works through all his straps and buckles with practiced ease, sheds his armour and lays it out to dry on the floor of the tent, followed by his outer layers. His smallclothes are relatively dry in most places, and he’s more eager to bear a little dampness than he is to share a bed with the Emperor of Nilfgaard while stark naked, so he keeps them on. He hesitates a moment, holding his swords and wondering how to go about climbing into bed with Emhyr; then he decides,  _ fuck it, _ and simply wanders over to flop down in the space Emhyr has left him. 

Emhyr eyes him subtly as he lays his swords down beside him but, remarkably, doesn’t comment. Geralt’s pretty sure that such a move would’ve gotten him tossed in a dungeon a month or two ago, but things are… very much different now. 

Yeah, different. He’s sleeping next to Emhyr with no guards in sight, on his way to Beauclair, where everyone believes he’s fucking the guy.  _ Different  _ might be an understatement. 

There’s not a lot of space on a pallet meant for one, so when Geralt settles down on his side to watch the flickering of the lantern, his back presses up against Emhyr’s thigh. It’s unavoidable, but it sends shivers down Geralt’s spine nevertheless. Emhyr isn’t the only one leading a lonely life; Geralt hasn’t really touched another person since Regis left Toussaint to look after Dettlaff, with the exception of a few hugs from Ciri. Before meeting up with Regis, it had been months. In the past, on the few occasions he chose not to winter at Kaer Morhen, when the witchers’ reputation was at its worst, it wasn’t impossible to go a year or more without a gentle touch. 

He’s very familiar with the way that sort of chronic deprivation affects him. It’s strange and baffling to find it soothed by Emhyr, but he relaxes into the feeling nonetheless, letting that odd fluttering sensation in his chest run its course and leave him warm and drowsy. Idly, he wonders if Emhyr is experiencing the same thing. 

A particularly loud thunderclap shakes the tent, arriving simultaneously with the burst of lightning. Emhyr flips another page. 

“I remember,” he says suddenly, “when Cirilla was young, she used to be afraid of thunderstorms.”

Geralt grins at the unexpected memory. “Damn, right. Nearly forgot about that. Poor kid hated the way a storm would howl and whistle through the old keep.”

Emhyr huffs a quiet laugh. “It is easy to forget. She has… grown, and changed, so much.” There’s a hint of something deeply sad in his voice. “Sometimes… King Tuirseach would take her to the window and tell her tales of sailing through Skellige storms. Whisk her away from the castle, to a land where thunder was simply the gods roaring their approval, never to be feared.”

Geralt turns onto his back, looking up Emhyr. “She might’ve taken that a bit too literally. I tracked her there, at one point. She’d dropped into the sea off the coast of Hindarsfjall.”

A smile spreads inexorably over Emhyr’s face. He shakes his head, setting aside his book and linking his hands together in his lap. “She has changed so much,” he repeats, quietly, almost inaudible over the rain. “And I have missed it.”

“Hey.” Geralt places a hand on Emhyr’s arm, and Emhyr looks down at him. “Yeah, you fucked up. Badly, and a lot." Emhyr blinks in surprise. "But," he continues, "you put away your pride to make sure you could do better for her. You're there for her now. She  _ wants  _ you there now. And I know, she's been through a whole lot since you two last talked, but she's still so young. She isn't done changing yet, and you're gonna get to see it from now on. So… not all bad, right?"

Emhyr lets out a small, shaky sound that might have been a laugh. "Fair," he says softly, and anyone else would detect no change in his expression but Geralt has spent enough time in his company to notice the slight shine in his bright amber eyes and the little pained crease in his brow. He rubs his thumb idly over the beautiful silk of Emhyr's dressing gown, hoping to soothe that look. 

Emhyr lets his eyes close, the tension in his body draining away. Suddenly he looks much younger, healthier, his pale skin warmed by the firelight, features soft. "Thank you, Geralt," he whispers. 

"Of course," Geralt replies, too busy studying the loose strands of hair hanging around his face to be surprised that he really means it. 

Upon realizing that his hand is still on Emhyr’s arm, and this might be a step beyond what Emhyr is willing to put up with, he lets his hand fall to rest on his stomach. 

“You should sleep,” he says. 

“As should you.” Emhyr gets up on his knees and leans over Geralt to blow out the lantern. 

The tent falls into darkness, broken by the occasional flash of lightning, and the storm sounds a lot louder without the fire nearby. Emhyr sits back down on his side of the bedroll, feeling at the blankets until he finds the edge and tugs them all up to cover the both of them. Then he lies down and shuffles a bit until he can get the blankets firmly over his shoulders, his back pressed up to Geralt’s side. 

“Your feet are cold,” Geralt complains, when they brush his bare calves. 

“Well, you are warm,” says Emhyr, in the voice that means he’s messing with Geralt. 

Geralt sighs, but doesn’t move away. “Emperor’s privilege, I guess.”

A moment passes in silence, both trying to adjust to the presence of the other enough to sleep. Geralt’s eyelids start to droop. Emhyr’s breathing slows. 

“You don’t  _ actually _ like being called by your titles in bed, do you?” Geralt asks. 

“Go to sleep,” Emhyr grumbles. 

“Just seems like the sort of thing I should know, if I’m gonna pretend to be your– ow!” 

“You are insufferable,” growls Emhyr, having elbowed him solidly in the ribs. “ _ Sleep.” _

“Fine,” Geralt sighs. “Night, Emhyr.”

There’s a pause, then a grudging, “Goodnight, witcher.”

Geralt grins. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Bleiddin_ \- the diminutive form of _bleidd_ , meaning "my wolf" or "little wolf"


	6. Chapter 6

A day of hard riding sees them arrive in Forgeham by evening, back on schedule despite their early stop the night before. 

“Why not just ride on to Mettina?” Geralt asked over a hurried lunch, sniffing at a pear before offering it to Emhyr. 

Emhyr raised an eyebrow at him. “No political force of any significance has ever come out of Forgeham.”

Geralt understands as they ride through the outer walls of the city. It’s a big place, much bigger than the Northern cities that he’s used to frequenting, but compared to the Nilfgaardian capital it might as well be a backwater. The public has not been notified of the emperor’s visit, that much is clear; the merchants and pedestrians milling about in the streets are all going about their daily business, until they spot the imperial procession and scramble to make room. Even with no crowd control, the number of people out and about is far from unmanageable. Geralt is able to scan everyone as he trots past and determine that it would be very difficult for an assassin to use these crowds for cover—unlike those that would inevitably form in a city as large as Metinna. 

Moreover, Emhyr seems to have co-opted some poor sod’s inn for the night, rather than staying at the little governmental complex. It’s a reasonable decision here, where the city officials live and work in a building no fancier than a particularly large villa, but in Mettina it would raise too many eyebrows to intentionally avoid visiting the palace. It might even be taken as an insult from the emperor, knowing politicians. There would be no way for Emhyr to limit his contact with possible assassins, and there would be no way for him to keep his small company isolated from other collaborators. 

It’s a nice inn, too, though the entire foyer stinks of fear as Emhyr and Geralt head inside to greet the owner and a small lineup of employees. Geralt can’t blame them; he’s starting to forget these days, but Emhyr is terrifying when he’s in emperor mode, from the way he holds himself to the way he speaks to that cold, piercing gaze. Geralt does his best to look official and friendly at the same time, which doesn’t seem to work, because they all look just as scared of him when Emhyr introduces him as Geralt aen Emreis. He suspects the hair and the eyes and the two swords strapped to his back don’t help much. 

He says as much once he and Emhyr are alone in their room—their one room, with one bed, but it’s quite a nice bed with more than enough room for two people, and there’s a bath in the corner too that Geralt intends to get some use out of before they’re back on the road. 

Emhyr pauses his assessment of the place and gives him a questioning look. “You can… smell a person’s fear?”

“Well, sort of.” Geralt shrugs. “I can smell stress hormones. And others. It’s easier when they start sweating, when they're really nervous."

"Hm," says Emhyr, turning this over in his head for a moment before refocusing. "Have you any supplies to replenish? The merchants' lane is a few blocks over."

"S'pose." Geralt narrows his eyes. "You sure you should be alone with them?" He jerks his thumb towards the door, outside which most of the Impera line the hallway. "Besides, I'm sure your servants could handle picking up a few herbs and some jerky for me."

"I assumed that by now you would be eager to spend some time without an escort. I will not begrudge you that." Emhyr taps the knife at his hip—a traditional accessory, yes, but no less deadly for it. "I am not helpless, witcher, and do put some thought into the strategy of our informant. An attack now, while I am surrounded by loyal men, would be a waste."

Pursing his lips, Geralt concedes the point. "Fine. Wouldn't mind a look around."

"Return before mealtime," Emhyr recommends. "I believe a roast pig has been arranged."

Geralt perks up at that. "Will there be dessert?"

A little smile quirks at Emhyr's lips, and he dips his head. "Consider it done."

* * *

Emhyr watches as Geralt's slitted eyes flick around the room, always alert, always searching, even as he eats and drinks and laughs with the rest of the company. He's learning—learning how a spy thinks, acts, plans. After being involved in several regicides, he's finally learning how one kills an emperor. 

Emhyr isn't a fool. One more man with an understanding of exactly what it takes to murder him is one more enemy. But as the emperor currently under Geralt’s protection, he finds it heartening, even though the witcher has taken to smelling everything he lets Emhyr put in his mouth. 

Geralt is unsettled today. The poisoning attempt of the morning before rattled him, more than Emhyr thought it would—defying expectations at every turn, again. Emhyr hated that, right from the moment they met. It wasn't supposed to  _ happen; _ a simple killer for hire was never supposed to surprise a master strategist. But by now Emhyr has come to accept that there are few rules by which the witcher will always abide, and that the rest of his behaviour will remain a source of endless frustration. It keeps him alive, Emhyr supposes. It makes him fascinating. 

Emhyr isn't a fool. He knows what it says of him, when he accepts food from the witcher without a second thought, lets him share his tent with his swords at his side and more than enough brute strength to murder a human with his hands alone, should he so choose. He even feels confident in his decision to trust the witcher, for now. But things are shifting. Geralt surprised him once more with his ability to genuinely care for anyone's wellbeing—for Emhyr also knows what it says of Geralt, that he tests the food and tolerates Emhyr's presence in the same bed, that he'll offer a kind word without prompting.

It means that Geralt grows more dangerous by the day, because this arrangement is no longer a job to him. As he said himself, his service can be bought, but his loyalty can't. And Emhyr knows that his loyalty is conditional; there are rules by which the witcher will always abide and he will not stand and bear it when Emhyr is inevitably forced to act beyond his moral code, because he is a ruler with greater concerns than his own ethics and Geralt answers only to himself. 

Emhyr cannot lean so heavily on a support that will vanish beneath him sooner or later. By all accounts, this should return to being a job and nothing more, for then he could be certain that the witcher will not think himself betrayed when he remembers that Emhyr is not worthy of his trust. And  _ yet…  _

Geralt nudges him with his elbow as young Braihm describes an encounter with a basilisk in graphic and dramatic detail. When Emhyr turns to him, he makes a face that clearly means  _ bullshit, _ quickly dissolving into a crooked grin when Emhyr huffs his amusement. He doesn't smell of horse anymore; he got his bath, and now the scent of Emhyr's favourite soap clings to him. He laughs when the others laugh, and unlike the others he glances to Emhyr to make sure he's enjoying himself too, and Emhyr still doesn't know how he even learned to tell because the emperor certainly does not laugh or grin in front of his men and… he can't give it up. 

By the Great Sun, Emhyr is a fool. 

* * *

Geralt wakes in the middle of the night, in an unusually comfortable bed, with something pressing against his back. He stretches groggily, tries to roll over and finds himself blocked by Emhyr, sitting up on the edge of the mattress.

“Wha–?” he mumbles. 

Emhyr glances back at him. “You seem to have commandeered the entire bed.” His voice is rough, but quiet; there’s no decorum left. As Geralt blinks to bring himself to wakefulness, he notices that Emhyr has lit a candle. 

Yawning, he squirms around until he’s lying on his back, still firmly on Emhyr’s side of the bed, his head on Emhyr’s pillow. “Sorry,” he says, a bit hoarse. “Did I wake you up?”

“No.”

“Yen says I steal the blankets,” he offers. 

Emhyr’s haggard look softens. “You do,” he confirms. 

Geralt watches for a moment. Emhyr is barely keeping himself awake, his posture sagging, his eyes shadowed harshly. The scent of salt hangs in the air, and the candlelight shines on traces of wetness down his cheeks and chin. His gaze is fixed on the window, and the moonlit rooftops beyond, but there’s no focus there. 

“Do you want me to leave?” Geralt asks softly. 

Emhyr tenses. Then sags, like there’s nothing left in him to keep him upright. 

“No.”

Geralt nods, considering, though Emhyr isn’t looking at him. “Alright,” he grunts, heaving himself up with great effort and moving to sit next to Emhyr, cross-legged. He lets his hand rest on Emhyr’s forearm, and Emhyr twitches as if startled. “You doing okay?”

Emhyr’s eyes narrow slightly, deep in thought. “Of course.”

“Yeah, course,” he sighs. 

Emhyr huffs. 

“D’you know,” Geralt begins, speaking quietly into the still room, “I had nightmares for years about the Wild Hunt. Watched them kill Ciri, over and over again. They were… prophetic, back then. Important. Now when I dream about them, it’s just cause they scared the shit out of me, and that’s what your mind does to deal with it.”

Emhyr’s eyes flick down to the floor. 

“It helps to talk. Really does.” Geralt pats his arm and moves back to lounge against the headboard, giving him his space. 

For some time, Emhyr remains silent, distant. Then he seems to make a decision to pull himself together, and draws a deep breath, returning to the room. 

“And what would you have me talk about, witcher?” he murmurs, eyeing Geralt over his shoulder. 

“You can tell me what you dreamed of,” he suggests. “I’ll listen.”

There’s a long moment where Geralt isn’t sure what Emhyr will do. He can see the gears turning in his head—the man just can’t stop second-guessing everything, though Geralt isn’t one to judge. 

The silence drags on, until Geralt is certain that Emhyr won't be able to put words to what he's seen. He's slipping back into the realm of his nightmare, his expression haunted and empty. Geralt doesn't like to see the bright, sharp light gone from his eyes. So he offers his comfort in the way witchers know best; he reaches out and places a hand on Emhyr's shoulder, a grounding weight. 

"Lie back down," he says quietly. "You need to rest."

Emhyr glances back at him, suspicious. After some thought, he heaves a sigh and lowers himself down onto the bed, on his side, facing away. Geralt's hand only leaves his shoulder to tug the heavy blankets up to his waist, and then returns, his thumb rubbing gentle circles over the silk of his nightshirt. 

Emhyr relaxes by degrees. The tension leaves his body, until he can allow himself to sink into the mattress, finally focused on Geralt's touch rather than the memories. Carefully, Geralt moves his hand higher, shifting aside the collar of Emhyr's shirt to stroke his thumb along the back of his neck. Emhyr startles at the feeling, a shiver wracking his body, but he doesn't move away. 

"No one ever touches you," Geralt observes. He lets his fingers trace the muscle between Emhyr's neck and shoulder, feeling a pang of pity for the man. 

"Unlike you," Emhyr says, only slightly shaky, "most people fear losing their hand."

With a huff of laughter, Geralt runs a strand of Emhyr’s hair between his fingers, then tucks it behind his ear. He never once would’ve thought it, but he’s coming to value these quiet moments, where Emhyr has no excuse to act the part of emperor. He’s finally getting a sense of Emhyr as a person, with his own wants and needs and quirks and fears separate from Nilfgaard; he can see, now, the remnants of the lonely and scared boy that Emhyr has buried, erased from history, but never truly resolved. Because while Emhyr the emperor has endless advisors, servants, spies and generals to turn to, Emhyr the person has no one—no confidants, no companions, no family up until recently. Geralt is beginning to suspect that he’s the closest thing Emhyr has ever had to a friend. 

Maybe that should alarm him, given their… strained history together. But Geralt is old, too old to pretend he wants to see Emhyr suffer alone, and too old to pretend he doesn’t consider Emhyr a friend as well. 

“You don’t like being feared,” he says quietly. “Not really. You value it, cause it keeps you safe. Lets you get your job done. But you don’t like it.”

He runs his hand through Emhyr’s hair, smoothing it down where it’s been ruffled by sleep. Emhyr tilts his head back almost unconsciously, his expression going tight with pain. 

“What do you  _ want, _ witcher?” he whispers. “Why…” He trails off into a shaky exhale as Geralt strokes his hair again. 

“I don’t want anything from you, Emhyr,” Geralt says, fondly exasperated. He suspects he’ll be saying it a lot. “I have everything I need. I don’t want your money. I don't want your throne. Fuck, never.” He shudders. 

“You are a very odd man,” Emhyr says quietly. 

“Yeah.” Geralt shrugs. “But that’s why you asked me to do this.”

They fall back into silence—peaceful, this time, not tense. Geralt continues playing idly with Emhyr’s hair. Emhyr’s eyes close, and he relaxes once more as he grows accustomed to the touch after so long without, roused only by the occasional shiver. His hands stop shaking. His heartbeat slows, until Geralt thinks he’s fallen asleep.

His eyes start to burn with exhaustion, so he leans over to blow out the candle and settles down on his side of the bed. When he withdraws his hand, a small noise of protest escapes Emhyr, quickly choked-off. Geralt smiles.

He places his hand back on Emhyr’s shoulder, and Emhyr doesn’t wake again. 

* * *

On the fourth day of travel, Emhyr orders the procession to ride right through the evening. It stirs up some mild discontent amist everyone who isn’t sitting in a plush carriage, Geralt included, who are all starting to get quite sore and hungry, but it passes upon their arrival at the gates of Beauclair Palace around midnight. Geralt hands Roach off to a stablehand and attempts to stretch the stiffness out of his legs and back, and Emhyr does the same after stepping out of the carriage, albeit a little more gracefully and with less swearing. The Impera leave them at the gate, under the protection of the Ducal Guard, and a servant leads them off quite happily to an inn for their food and rooms. 

Once again, Emhyr’s unpredictability has paid off. Their arrival wasn’t expected until the morning at least, so although the Toussaintois guards are already waiting for them, just in case, the palace goes into a quiet flurry to wake up all the diplomats who are supposed to be greeting Emhyr. It’s a great annoyance for everyone involved, moreso because they’re all expected to be composed and gracious towards their emperor while half-awake, and it has the additional benefit of ensuring there’s no one ready to take a shot at the party as the guard changes over. Geralt is starting to think Emhyr has a decent sense of humour after all. 

There’s a carriage ready for them, but Emhyr chooses to walk instead, and Geralt is grateful. Four days of sitting isn’t easy on anyone, be it on a horse or in a carriage, and it gives him a chance to get reacquainted with the palace in all its glory. The night air is warm and sweet, and a constant gentle breeze keeps them company as they make the walk up to the residential areas, carrying with it the scent of flowers and greenery. 

It’s beautiful. Geralt is beginning to feel a bit sick. 

“I understand,” Emhyr says quietly, so no one else can hear, “that this area required extensive repairs after the attack.”

Geralt nods, swallowing. He hasn’t been here since that night, hasn’t seen the palace peaceful and spotless until now, scrubbed clean of the blood that puddled on the gorgeous marble landings and poured down the steps. He glances towards a little alcove off the path, a porch overlooking the Sansretour Valley, and remembers the gutted body of a noblewoman strewn over the bench. 

Perceptive as always, Emhyr notices his reaction and decides against continuing that line of questioning. Geralt is less successful at putting it out of mind; he knows what’s waiting for him on the upper levels. 

They reach the viewing platform near their entrance to the castle proper, and their guards split off to take up positions around the circular plateau. In the centre stands Anna Henrietta, flanked by an attendant on her left and Damien on her right; a few more assorted courtesans wait off to the side. None of them look quite at their best, dressed well but hastily, their hair slightly out of place, their eyes slightly bleary. Geralt feels a sense of petty satisfaction, though it doesn't last. 

Anarietta spots Emhyr first, naturally. She takes handfuls of her skirts, ready to curtsey to him. Then she spots Geralt, walking at Emhyr’s side, and freezes. 

Emhyr halts a few feet in front of her, and somehow exudes an air of expectation despite never cocking an eyebrow. Anarietta tears her eyes from Geralt long enough to complete her curtsey, her head dipped low, and her subjects follow her lead. When she straightens again, she can’t seem to keep her gaze from slipping away from Emhyr. 

“Duchess,” Emhyr greets her, his low voice perfectly cordial. “I thank you for your hospitality, and apologize for the late hour of my arrival.”

“Your Imperial Majesty,” she replies graciously. “An honour, of course, to host you.” Her eyes dart over to Geralt again, and Geralt resists the urge to flinch at the multitude of emotions battling for dominance in her expression. “I was not aware, Sire,” she says carefully, “that you intended to bring the master witcher with you. We have not prepared quarters–”

The explanation dies on her lips at a wave of Emhyr’s hand. 

“That will not be necessary,  _ Gvaern’truov  _ Geralt will be staying with me.”

Geralt, by now, has grown accustomed to Emhyr’s company—to having to read the very subtle changes in his demeanour in order to tell what he’s thinking. It’s just about impossible to faze the man if he doesn’t want to be fazed. So it comes as a bit of a surprise to him when Anarietta fails spectacularly to hide her shock at the invocation of his title, her eyes going wide as saucers and mouth falling open for a moment before she manages to pull herself together. 

He can’t really blame her. He’s pretty far out of his depth himself. 

“I…” She clears her throat. “I must extend my sincerest apologies to His Majesty and His Highness. I was not aware of this… development. As it is–” she barely suppresses a wince– “His Highness, Geralt, has been served with an order not to appear on the palace grounds.”

Emhyr’s expression turns inexplicably colder. “I see. On what charges?”

Geralt watches Anarietta wither under Emhyr’s gaze, feeling strangely like he did watching Yennefer and Triss trade subtle jabs over him. 

“He disobeyed my direct orders during and prior to the attack on Beauclair,” she begins, hesitant. “He broke a prisoner of the duchy out of her confinement. He colluded with the creature who wrought such destruction upon our city, and it was discovered later that he brought another of its species into the palace during the massacre–”

“Regis helped save your  _ life, _ ” Geralt hisses, before he can stop himself. “He certainly saved Syanna’s. And he isn’t an  _ it  _ and neither is–”

Emhyr silences him with a look. When did that start working?

“As you can see, Duchess,” he says, letting a hint of annoyance slip into his tone, “Geralt is a member of the Nilfgaardian royal family. He is under no obligation to take orders from his vassal.” He places a hand on Geralt’s lower back. “I expect to be given a full account of the attack during our stay, including any evidence you have of these charges. You have my word that it will be investigated thoroughly. In the interim, I expect Geralt to be treated with the utmost respect, as befits his station. Am I understood?”

Emhyr never approaches anger, never lets himself sound threatening. But his voice holds a cold promise that has even the guards wide-eyed and nervous. 

Looking pained, Anarietta curtsies again. “Of course, Your Majesty.” She gestures to an overwhelmed Damien. “My guard captain will escort you to your rooms. The kitchen staff are preparing a small meal for you, as requested.”

“Thank you.” Emhyr dips his head. “I look forward to our next audience.”

Anarietta forces a smile onto her face, and sends Damien off with a servant. Damien leads Emhyr and Geralt into the palace, a few more guards trailing behind them at a respectful distance, and stands at attention beside an ornate gilded door. 

“So,” says Geralt, lingering in the doorway as Emhyr heads inside. “Looks like you’re healing up well.”

Damien scrunches up his face a bit, instinctively testing the feel of the scars over his cheek and jaw. “Thank you, Your Highness,” he says stiffly. 

Geralt sighs, leaning against the wall. “C’mon, don’t be like that. You can’t still be pissed at me.”

“It is not my place to condemn or forgive you,” he says. “Her Grace shall–”

“Yeah, yeah.” Geralt waves him off, frustration with the whole situation still simmering under his skin. “Just let me know when you wanna spar again. I’m not some indolent noble just cause I’ve got a title now.”

Damien only replies with a sour look as Geralt heads after Emhyr in a huff, shutting and locking the door behind him. He finds Emhyr doing a cursory assessment of his temporary office, poking through the drawers of the desk. 

“The kitchen staff will have to enter in short order,” Emhyr says mildly, gesturing to the door. 

“I’ll unlock it then,” Geralt grumbles, flopping down onto a terribly comfortable couch and crossing his arms over his chest. He can feel Emhyr eyeing him, and heaves a great sigh. “Go on. I know you want to ask.”

Emhyr makes a little noise of amusement, and wanders across the room to inspect the tomes on the bookshelves. “It is not a matter of curiosity, if that helps to soothe your mind,” he says. “The duchess has a very valid argument. I will need to know your version of events if I am to keep you out of the dungeons.”

“She won’t do that,” Geralt mutters. “She said she wouldn’t. She got her sister back—and Dandelion, come to think of it—so I get to stay in Toussaint, as long as she doesn’t have to see me again.”

“Hm.” Emhyr plucks a book of fairytales off the shelf and starts flipping idly through it, an obvious effort to make Geralt feel less scrutinized. “Tell me then. Disobeying orders?”

Geralt sets his jaw, turning his response over in his mind for a moment. “First, you gotta understand something,” he warns. “All you Southerners, you have trouble getting it into your heads, cause you don’t see so many monsters around. Most of you still think witchers are a story meant to scare kids into staying in bed. But there are creatures out there that you don’t know shit about, and never will, and you have no business trying to tell me how to do my job.”

Emhyr has stopped pretending to be involved in the book. He dips his head to Geralt, indicating that he’s willing to hear him out. 

“What attacked Beauclair—a higher vampire—is sentient. He’s intelligent. He feels, just the same as any human. He isn’t a monster, and he didn’t kill for no reason.” Geralt hesitates. “His name’s Dettlaff, if that helps.”

“I see.” Emhyr tilts his head. “Go on.”

“Anarietta’s sister, Syanna, was manipulating him. She took the name Rhenawedd, got into a relationship with him, ditched him and pretended to have been kidnapped, then started sending him ransom notes demanding that he kill people who’d wronged her if he ever wanted to see his mate again. Dettlaff was scared. Terrified. He couldn’t refuse.” 

Geralt takes a deep breath, steadying himself through the anger. “He was pissed when he figured it out. He just… you gotta understand, he loves more intensely than a human. Being betrayed by Syanna was agony for him. He told her to meet him within three days, or he would sic a pack of lesser vampires on the city. She even agreed, everything was gonna be fine…”

Emhyr frowns, listening intently. “I was told that Anarietta imprisoned her, for a time. Before she was sent to Vedette to delicately remove her from the public eye.”

“Yeah.” Geralt shakes his head. “We tried to tell Anarietta, me and Regis, but she wouldn’t listen. She locked Syanna up, demanded that I kill Dettlaff instead of just… letting Syanna talk to him.”

“That would account for her second grievance with you.”

“I had to,” Geralt says firmly. “I wasn’t gonna kill him if it wasn’t absolutely necessary. We broke Syanna out and took her to meet Dettlaff, they talked. It… got a bit tense. But Dettlaff called off the attack, in the end. He just wanted an apology, and a promise she wouldn’t come near him or his family again.” 

He gets to his feet, Emhyr’s gaze tracking him as he paces furiously around the room. “It didn’t need to happen!” he insists. “If Anna had just  _ listened  _ to me, no one else would’ve died. She–” 

Geralt stops in his tracks as Emhyr’s hand falls on his arm, gently holding him in place. 

“She refused to believe he was worth saving,” Emhyr says quietly. “This upsets you.”

“Yeah,” Geralt snaps. “Yeah, course it fucking does. I–” He lets out a noise of frustration, but doesn’t tear away from Emhyr. “I meet a lot of monsters who just want to live in peace, alright? Most places I go, I’m on that list. Toussaint is friendlier than most of the shithole towns up north, and I was getting used to it, but…”

He shrugs, his eyes dropping to the carpet. 

“I understand,” Emhyr murmurs, and something in his tone tells Geralt that he really might. 

He lingers a moment longer, then lets his hand fall. He wanders over to the large window at the back of the room to study the rolling hills beyond the palace, shining silver in the moonlight. 

“Regis,” he says, as if testing the name in his mouth. “This would be the other vampire, whom you brought into the palace?”

“Yes. He didn’t hurt anyone,” he adds. “He would never. I couldn’t have fought through all the lesser vampires without his help. Dettlaff would’ve killed Syanna if he hadn’t been there to calm him down.”

Emhyr turns to him, something dark and unreadable in his eyes. “I know the name.”

Geralt’s heart does a funny little flip, and he swallows. “Yeah. I, er– I thought you might.”

“It was reported to me that he was killed,” says Emhyr. “Extremely thoroughly, as I understand it.” When Geralt doesn’t respond, Emhyr softens. “I have nothing against him. I will not attempt to harm him, you have my word. I only wish to know what happened.”

After a moment’s consideration, Geralt nods. “Well, Vilgefortz came pretty fucking close,” he admits. “But it’s damn hard to kill a higher vampire. Usually the best you can do is stop them from regenerating for a while. It was Dettlaff who brought him back. Healed him with his own blood, for years and years, and he’s still recovering.” 

A little smile twitches at his lips, then fades. “It made them really close. There’s no way for a human to understand the bond they share, and Regis still swore to stand with me if I had to fight Dettlaff, even though it would’ve destroyed him. I owe him everything.”

“And thus from the start you could not bear to kill Dettlaff.” At Geralt’s look of surprise, Emhyr waves a hand. “You are not so difficult to predict, witcher. Your loyalty lies with your friends and family above all else, especially an order from a monarch.” Then his tone hardens. “I dislike when my subjects make foolish decisions out of ignorance and stubbornness. I will reprimand the duchess. You should expect no further punishments. And if you should happen across the vampires, you may let them know that they are welcome in my court.”

Geralt huffs a little laugh, disbelieving. “Thanks, Emhyr. You might get Regis popping in a lot, though. He adores Ciri.”

Emhyr smiles. “Well, I understand that her safety is owed partially to him. I shall bear it.”

A knock on the door shakes Geralt out of the last of his frustration, and he opens it to admit several servants carrying platters, along with a rush of scents that make his mouth water. “Damn, I missed the food here,” he grins, crowding next to Emhyr at a little table in the corner of the room. 

“Perhaps you should take up tasting in your retirement,” Emhyr comments. “You might even be the first not to die in my service.”

Geralt snorts, and steals a tiny sandwich from his plate. 

“So,” he says afterwards, stripped to his smallclothes and lying on his back in an obscenely comfortable bed. “No more Impera around.”

“Correct,” Emhyr agrees, sprawled out beside him. 

“No more informants.”

“Possibly.” At Geralt’s exasperated look, he amends, “Probably.”

“Great. What’s next?”

“At a guess?” Emhyr’s voice turns bright with anticipation. “The tests are over. We shall see no more half-hearted attacks. Our next assailants will spare no effort to ensure my death. They will likely strike after the celebratory banquet following the negotiations, when the palace is full of visitors.”

“Wait.” Geralt rolls over and glares at him. “You didn’t say anything about a banquet.”

Emhyr’s eyes glimmer with amusement. “I assumed it was a given.”

Geralt groans loudly, throwing an arm over his face. 

“It will be… elaborate.” His voice is wavering with constrained laughter now. 

“I hate you.”

“We will only be obligated to perform one dance together.”

“ _ Fuck. _ ”


	7. Chapter 7

Emhyr returns to their suite around noon, while Geralt is still lounging on a sofa in the study with a charcuterie platter and a book on archespores. 

“Have you tried these?” He plucks a grape off the bunch and pops it into his mouth. “They’re delicious.”

Emhyr shoots him a sour look, and drops a stack of papers on the desk. “Settling into a courtier’s lifestyle, I see.”

Geralt shrugs. “Not so bad, really. Don’t think I’ve slept in for the last decade.” 

He holds out the plate to Emhyr, who takes a few pieces of meat and cheese at random and starts eating absently as he drops into an armchair, eyeing his papers with distaste. Geralt raises an eyebrow in question. 

“Full of half-truths and propaganda,” he complains. “The governors have grown so intent on preserving their military independence that they will not let me do my job. Both the Ducal Guard and the citizenry took heavy losses in the attack—thousands of deaths, as I am certain you know—yet they would have me believe their defences were perfectly adequate.”

Geralt snorts. 

“Yes, indeed.” He purses his lips. “I have no desire to take men away from the war in the north to occupy _ Toussaint. _ How am I to develop an appropriate response to the crisis from Nilfgaard if they will not admit to the deficiencies in their forces? Fools.”

“Never thought I’d hear you complain about political maneuvering,” Geralt teases. 

Emhyr sighs heavily, slumping sideways in his chair. “I am old. Increasingly, I find navigating the whims of a court more exhausting than rewarding.”

“Hm. You need a vacation,” Geralt decides. 

Emhyr looks at him like he’s never heard of such a thing in his life—which is entirely possible, knowing him. 

“You  _ are  _ supposed to be using this day to relax after your trip,” Geralt says. “Let’s go into the city. Take a break from the palace.” When Emhyr frowns deeper, he adds, “I’ll even show you the damage done, firsthand. It’ll be easier to decide what to do if you know how the attack actually affected people.”

This seems to sway him. “Fair enough. We will need to bring guards,” he warns. “It would be suspicious otherwise. ”

“Not exactly a vacation, then.”

“As close to one as I shall ever get,” Emhyr says, amused. “I would like you to select two honour guards to accompany us. People you have known since before the attack on Beauclair, and who you trust.”

“Alright.” Geralt narrows his eyes. “Guess that means you’ve been hard at work on this assassination plot, then. What’s up with the Ducal Guard?”

Emhyr’s eyes flicker with approval. He waves Geralt over to the desk, and spreads out a few of his documents for perusal. 

They’re the Ducal Guard’s records, listing deaths and injuries in the ranks from the attack onwards. Geralt winces, seeing them laid out like this; he knew they were utterly unprepared to fight a legion of vampires, he saw them slaughtered in the streets, but he hadn’t registered just how many were killed. Next in the stack is a list of all the subsequent promotions and additions to the guard, new soldiers brought in to fill the many gaps in the patrols. There are dozens of them. 

Geralt frowns as he scans through. “Who are all these people? Toussaint doesn’t have a draft. Surely they aren’t just letting in civilians off the streets now.”

“No, they are not.” Emhyr seems pleased, like he’s asking the right questions. “These men are former knights errant, recruited to help maintain order while Beauclair recovers, and to disguise the sheer number of guards lost. To prevent panic among the citizens. They are all experienced in combat, as a result, but–”

“But anyone can pose as a knight, and a knight can be hired by anyone,” Geralt finishes grimly. “Got it. So the palace is already full of strangers with swords, who may or may not have sworn their oaths to Toussaint and may or may not care anyway, and soon there are gonna be legions more.”

“Exactly,” Emhyr says. 

Geralt sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “And do you plan to do anything about it?”

Emhyr shrugs. “In this, as well, I have no military jurisdiction. I cannot simply tell them to leave.”

Narrowing his eyes, Geralt crosses his arms over his chest. “You have a plan,” he states. “You  _ always  _ have a plan, for literally everything.”

“I have a plan,” he agrees, amused. 

“Gonna let me in on it?”

“No.” At Geralt’s glare, Emhyr adds, “There is not yet enough of it to warrant sharing. By the night of the banquet I expect to have all the information I need.”

“You’re one cryptic bastard, y’know that?” Geralt grumbles. 

Emhyr seems to take this as a compliment. “Go pick your guards, witcher. I must inform the duchess of our outing. And leave your armour and swords behind, they would only raise questions.”

As instructed, Geralt leaves the study to find something to wear that befits an emperor’s lover, though not without a hearty eye roll. He has some difficulty; the wardrobes in the bedroom hold no shortage of outfits, which together surely cost more than all the contracts he’s taken in the last decade, but very few of them seem to be suitable for any sort of exercise. He digs through half the closet before finding a decent pair of breeches and a nice loose shirt. He suspects it isn’t very imperial—but really, if Emhyr wanted  _ imperial  _ then he shouldn’t have left a witcher to pick his own clothes. 

When he makes his way down to the stables, trailed by two palace guards from Damien’s unit, his suspicions are confirmed. Emhyr has found himself a gorgeous black stallion, and is leaning against the stall as he waits for the stablehands to tack the horse up. He’s managed to put together what Geralt thinks must be the most elegant and unnecessary riding outfit possible: black breeches, a black tailcoat with red embroidery and silk lining, leather gloves and knee-high boots. He’s traded his livery collar for a beautiful gold circlet, and wears a curved knife in a silver holster at his hip. 

Geralt can’t quite help eyeing him up and down, impressed despite himself. He still doesn’t particularly care for the fashion of nobles—except for Ciri’s favourite outfits, which are always perfect—but even he has to admit that Beauclair’s tailors have a way with their craft. Where Emhyr’s usual many-layered robes accentuate his shoulders and hide most everything else, the Toussaintois coat draws in tight at the waist, making him look uncommonly tall and slim. With the addition of the circlet resting on his forehead, it becomes very easy to see the elven blood in his line. 

As he finishes his quick perusal, Emhyr catches his eye. He arches an eyebrow.

“How do you not overheat in that?” asks Geralt, wandering up to him. 

“A great deal of practice,” Emhyr says wryly. He gestures to Geralt’s decidedly less formal outfit. “I see you will not be having that problem.”

Geralt snorts and crosses his arms over his chest, suddenly aware of how low his neckline dips. Ves would be proud. 

“Don’t make me go change,” he warns. “I’m not riding in a damn corset.”

“A spectacular idea,” Emhyr says, deadpan. “But no. This is a vacation, after all.”

Huffing a laugh, Geralt goes to meet the stablehand as he leads Roach out, groomed and tacked in fancier gear than he’s ever owned. “Damn,” he says, reaching up to scratch Roach’s forehead. “You got a makeover too, huh? Better not get a taste for it.” Roach shoves his nose into his chest, and he grins. 

When he turns around, Emhyr is looking at him with open amusement. 

“What’s funny?” Geralt asks. 

“Cirilla did say you talk to your horses.”

He sighs. “Yeah, yeah, hilarious. Who’s she to judge, anyway? She talks to her swords.”

With a tiny smile, Emhyr takes the reins of his stallion and leads him out of the stall. “Come along, witcher.” And after a moment’s silence, he comments, “I used to have conversations with my father’s Zerrikanian mare.”

Laughing, largely out of surprise, Geralt follows. 

He and Emhyr, followed by the guards, walk their horses to the gates of the palace, then mount and ride over the bridge to the city at a brisk walk. Geralt feels eyes on them the whole way; Emhyr is recognizable by his posture alone, not to mention his black mount, decked out in polished leather and golden suns. He can't help drawing attention. As they cross over into the bustling downtown area, more and more people stop to gawk at them. Geralt begins to wonder whether they should've asked for a proper escort—at least enough men to surround them as they pass through the crowds. 

"Where to?" asks Emhyr, guiding his horse close to Roach. 

They meander to a stop as Geralt considers the matter, peering down each street leading away from the square. In the light of the lovely Toussaint summer sun, it's hard to even place the things he witnessed during the attack. Life seems to have gone back to normal for the city's inhabitants, back to bright and cheery and perpetually tipsy. He finds himself relaxing instinctively; the place just has a way of sweeping everyone into its warm embrace. 

Then he looks a bit closer, beneath the veneer, and realizes the marks of the attack are still very much there. Blackened wood and plaster on building façades, long scratches carved into doors, shattered windows still boarded up with planks. Here and there, he spots a section of the stone path that's been painted, presumably to cover up stubborn bloodstains. 

The citizens carry on nonetheless, letting the lingering signs of devastation slip around the edges of their awareness. How human. 

A sick sort of guilt twists at Geralt's stomach, the same feeling that dogged him the whole time he was resting at Corvo Bianco. The rest of the city is oblivious now, moving on, making the best of it—and he's still stuck wondering whether he made the right decisions. Whether this whole mess could've been prevented if he'd only stuck to being a witcher and killed his monster. Suddenly he's overcome with the desire to be  _ seen, _ to make someone understand his actions and judge them and tell him whether he was right. 

And, well. Emhyr did say he wanted to see how the city was really doing. 

"Think I know where," he says quietly. "It's a bit out of the city. North. That alright?"

When he glances sideways, Emhyr is watching him with quiet curiosity in his eyes. 

He nods. "Lead on."

Geralt points Roach along the widest road and urges him into a trot, Emhyr keeping pace beside him. They cut a swath through the busy merchant lane, followed for some time by the cheers and shouts of particularly patriotic citizens, but soon enough they're past Cooper's Gate and into the outskirts. Then they're heading down the winding paths out of the city. Then they're in the open, cantering up into the Sansretour Valley, and among the endless rolling hills Geralt feels like he can breathe again. 

It doesn’t last. Less than ten minutes later, they arrive at the crumbling outer walls of La Compassion Orphanage, and draw their horses to a stop. 

Geralt presses his lips together tight. The grounds of the orphanage are gloomy and dull compared to the vibrant and healthy fields around it, like stepping into a sepia painting. It’s just as abandoned now as it was when Geralt came by, after the attack on Beauclair, to put an end to Orianna’s blood farming. No one’s been around to fix the damage, or to clean up the blood and gore staining the dirt in the courtyard. The only change is the ten small headstones lined up along the side of the building—commemorative only. With no parents to give them a place in the cemeteries, the bodies will have been burned en-masse. 

Even Emhyr seems subdued as they dismount at the gates. “Remain here,” he instructs the guards, handing one his reins. They exchange a nervous look, but offer no argument, so Geralt gives Roach to the other and heads into the courtyard. 

“I must admit,” Emhyr comments, “I did not expect this to be a part of your proposed vacation.”

“Mm. Sorry.” Geralt sets course for the row of stones, walking slowly. He feels unsettled by the place; the smell of death still hangs in the air, unconcerned by the fact that it doesn’t belong in such an idyllic land. “Figured… it’s pretty easy to look at people selling wine and shit in the city and feel like everyone’s doing fine. Rebuilding. But plenty of them never will.”

Emhyr slows to a stop in front of the headstones, examines them with his calculating gaze. He raises his head and takes in the sprawling building, the dusty, bloodstained courtyard. He lingers a moment on the bench under a tree, the little rocking horse waiting at its side. To Geralt’s surprise, a deep sadness settles into his eyes. 

“Tell me, then,” he says quietly. “Where are we?”

Geralt sighs, scanning the courtyard around them. "This is the orphanage," he says grimly. "Was, I guess. No one lives here anymore. Most of the kids died in the attack, plus the teachers and groundskeepers. The owner… took care of her myself."

Emhyr frowns in question. 

"She was another higher vampire. I paid her a visit after everything settled down, just to see if she was still here. Found her drinking from one of the surviving kids."

Emhyr grimaces. 

"Yeah. She was keeping them like cattle. I had no choice."

"Yes," Emhyr murmurs. His eyes drift back to the little headstones. "Yes, I agree."

A lump rises in Geralt's throat, and he swallows hard. "Could've stopped it," he blurts out. "I could– I could have prevented it all. If I'd just killed Dettlaff when I had the chance, like Anna wanted."

Emhyr studies him for a moment, a light furrow in his brow. Though his gaze is as piercing as always, it's also unusually soft. 

"You could not have avoided this, Geralt," he says. His voice is low and quiet, almost soothing. "Your loyalty lies with those you care for, above all else. Above, even, your desire to save everyone. You could never have killed the vampire on an order, not while knowing that it would wound someone so close to you."

Geralt gives a shaky laugh. "Didn't know you could read minds."

"You are not a difficult person to read. Your values are evident in everything you do."

"So you think I made the right choice?" he asks, even as part of his mind wonders why the fuck he cares what Emhyr thinks. 

"I believe you made the only choice you ever could have made." Emhyr shrugs, though the gesture isn't lighthearted. "The rest… it may be best to let go."

Geralt kicks at the dirt, his throat tight. Emhyr's not wrong, and he knows it. But he also doesn't find it nearly as easy as Emhyr to accept that what happened is over and done. After all, Ciri agreed to return to Nilfgaard because of her unshakeable drive to better life for everyone, and she got it from him. 

"Might I show you something?" Emhyr asks suddenly. "A… ritual, of sorts. I think–" He clears his throat, uncharacteristically hesitant. “I think you may find it comforting.”

Raising his eyes to meet Emhyr's, Geralt nods. 

Gathering his coat tails out of the way, Emhyr sinks to his knees in the dirt and draws the knife at his hip. He moves to press it to the back of his hand, and Geralt is seized by alarm. 

"Emhyr–" 

Emhyr holds up his hand, calming. "Sit, Geralt." 

Geralt listens, reluctantly, and watches as Emhyr draws the knife across his skin. The blade is diamond-sharp; hearty droplets of blood start to gather immediately. 

Emhyr sheathes the knife. "Repeat after me," he instructs. " _ Eigean evelienn deireadh. _ "

" _ Eigean evelienn deireadh, _ " murmurs Geralt. 

" _ Aen tuvean, aen Ard Feainn, aen Deithwen, uniade bloed aep Ceas'raet. _ "

Geralt repeats, and understands; he and Emhyr are naming the orphans as symbolic heirs, taking them into the royal bloodline. Giving them the guardians in death that they didn't have in life. 

Emhyr gathers some of the blood on his thumb, leans forward, and swipes it across the first stone, just above the name roughly carved into the rock. 

"Ida," he intones, " _ esseath en feainnewedd. Que'n esse. _ " He dips his head. " _ Va faill. _ "

" _ Va faill, _ " Geralt echoes. And so they continue, down the row of headstones, anointing each one with Emhyr's blood. Geralt has never considered himself religious, isn't convinced there's any afterlife waiting for the kids, but by the end he feels lighter nonetheless. 

Emhyr's hand is still bleeding sluggishly. He uses his other sleeve to press down firmly on the cut, and sits up to survey his work. 

"How sentimental," he muses, sounding almost shocked at himself. "Perhaps I deserve to be assassinated, if this is how I shall conduct myself from now on."

Geralt huffs, and nudges him with his shoulder. "Aw, it's not so bad," he says, getting to his feet. Emhyr rises with him. "You're much more tolerable when you aren't playing emperor. It's nice."

Emhyr blinks. "Is it?"

Geralt pauses, opens his mouth, and realizes he has no way to explain that he's somehow come to enjoy Emhyr's company. Then a wooden thump sounds from inside the building, and he suddenly has a bigger concern. 

He exchanges a glance with Emhyr, whose hand has drifted to his knife. "Give me that," he orders, and Emhyr obeys instantly. "Silver?"

“Steel.” Emhyr’s eyes are fixed on the front door of the house. "The guards–" 

"Won't help. Shh."

Geralt adjusts his tense grip on the knife and steps forward, putting himself between Emhyr and the door. He strains to hear over his own hurried heartbeat. It could be just a surveyor, looking to assess the property. Or it might not be. If another vampire has come to the orphanage to see Orianna, hoping for an easy meal… well, he barely survived the fight with her, equipped with every tool in his arsenal. The best he could hope for now is that he can hold out long enough for Emhyr and the palace guards to get away. 

“If I say run–” He freezes, just catching the sound of soft footsteps approaching the door. “If I say run,  _ run, _ ” he hisses.

Emhyr tenses behind him, ready to react. Geralt grips the knife harder. The rusted door knob squeaks, then turns, then the door finally opens to put him out of his misery and he’s face to face with–

“ _ Regis? _ ” Geralt blinks, unable to believe his eyes. “You–”

From the doorway of the orphanage, the vampire stares at him in equal disbelief. He looks exactly the same as he did the last time Geralt saw him, down to the satchel gripped in his hands. For a moment Geralt wonders whether the tragedy that took place here has manifested some sort of wraith, one particularly skilled at disarming him. Then Regis breaks into a huge smile, fangs and all, and Geralt drops the knife just in time to step forward and wrap him in a crushing hug, laughing joyously. 

“Regis!” he grins, drawing back just far enough to study his friend. “What the fuck are  _ you  _ doing here?”

“I could ask the very same, my dear witcher.” Regis presses his forehead to Geralt’s, his eyes sparkling, and Geralt takes a moment to bask in his presence.  _ Fuck,  _ he missed that old vampire. 

Regis’s gaze slips sideways, his smile dimming a bit to hide his fangs, and Geralt abruptly remembers Emhyr. Gently, he untangles Regis from his arms, a foolish smile lingering on his face as he turns to Emhyr, who has retrieved his knife and is cleaning it pointedly on the leg of his trousers. 

“I was under the impression that witchers took good care of their weapons,” he says mildly, sheathing the knife. 

Geralt snorts, rolling his eyes. “Just be glad you aren’t getting flayed right now.”

“Emiel Regis then, I presume.” Emhyr dips his head politely to Regis. “I am gratified to see you are recovering from your ordeal.”

Regis blinks at him owlishly before glancing to Geralt. “My deepest apologies, but have we met?”

Emhyr opens his mouth to speak, shuts it, and frowns lightly. Geralt can’t suppress a huff of laughter. Evidently, Emhyr isn’t used to introducing himself; a vampire with little regard for human politics and some degree of death-induced memory loss is probably a situation he’s never encountered. 

“Emhyr, meet Regis,” Geralt says. “Regis, meet Emhyr var Emreis, Emperor of Nilfgaard, er–” He wrinkles his nose. “I don’t have to list all your titles, do I?”

“Please do not,” Emhyr sighs. 

Understanding dawns on Regis’s face. “Cirilla’s father,” he says brightly. “Is she well? She spoke highly of you last she was here. She really must visit more often.”

Geralt grins, though Emhyr seems slightly alarmed by the concept. “I’ll tell her you said so. And she’s doing well. Right?”

Emhyr nods once, the same pride flickering in his eyes that Geralt feels. “She takes to her duties with vigour. She is a natural.” He hesitates. “And she is happy, I believe.”

Regis draws himself up, radiating satisfaction. “Excellent! But you must tell me what you’re both doing here. Forgive me,” he adds to Emhyr, “I was not under the impression you, er… visited places.”

Geralt snorts, which earns him a dry look from Emhyr. “We’re here about the attack on Beauclair.” As worry flickers across Regis’s face, he clarifies, “No more monster hunts. Nilfgaard needs to negotiate aid for Toussaint, to help rebuild. We thought we’d take a look at the state of things around the city.”

“Ah. Developed an interest in politics at last, have we?” teases Regis. 

“No,” Geralt protests. He nods at Emhyr. “I’m here to keep him from getting killed.”

Emhyr shoots him a dubious look. 

“It’s fine, don’t worry,” he assures him. “I trust Regis with my life. He’s not supposed to have his own guards here,” he explains to the vampire. “Officially I’m–” He hesitates, wincing. 

Regis tilts his head. 

“His concubine. Don’t laugh,” he warns. 

Regis presses his lips together very tightly to contain his amusement, which Geralt finds no more comforting than all-out laughter. “I–” He coughs delicately, suppressing a smile. “I suppose it was inevitable.”

“What’s that mean?” Geralt demands. 

“You do have a propensity to involve yourself in the affairs of powerful people,” Emhyr points out, to which Regis nods in agreement. 

Geralt begins to protest, realizes that he can find no argument in his defense, and shuts his mouth with a huff. 

Regis places a comforting hand on his arm. “Your secret is safe with me. I shan’t be in Beauclair much longer, regardless, and I have no one else to tell but Dettlaff.”

“You’re not staying?” Geralt asks, not quite able to disguise the disappointment he feels. 

Regis offers a small smile. “I miss civilization, I find, but Dettlaff is different. He is not ready to return to living near humans, and I must keep him company. Though I have been spending more time at  Mère-Lachaiselongue lately. If you have time between your imperial duties–” his eyes glitter in amusement– “perhaps you would visit?”

“I’ll do my best,” he promises, despite the teasing. “And here? What’re you doing back at this shithole?”

Regis’s face pinches in sadness as he throws a glance back at the door. “Ah, forgive my nostalgia. Orianna owned some artifacts, relics of our tribe. I had hoped to give them a new home, one unstained by–” He looks at the row of headstones helplessly.

“I understand,” Geralt says quietly. He puts a hand on Regis’s shoulder and squeezes. “You’re always welcome at Corvo Bianco, you know? Dettlaff too.”

Regis leans into his touch, his soot-black eyes sparkling. “Thank you, Geralt. I do hope you’ll forgive my haste,” he says, straightening, “but I don’t wish to linger here. The stench…”

“Yeah.” Geralt grimaces as the scent of blood and rot comes to his attention once again, then musters a more pleasant expression. “See you around, Regis.”

“We shall meet again soon,” Regis vows, and Geralt feels a rush of fondness. The vampire hesitates and offers Emhyr a small bow—out of politeness more than genuine fealty, Geralt knows—then steps away and dissolves into curls of mist. 

Emhyr stares for a moment at the spot where he stood, then seems to accept this development as yet another strange aspect of Geralt’s life. “You keep fascinating company,” he comments. 

Geralt laughs. “That’s putting it lightly. Ready to head back?”

“Mm. Yes.” Emhyr surveys the abandoned orphanage with an appraising eye. “I believe you’ve done me a great service today, witcher. Come.” He starts off for the gates. “We have something to discuss with Cirilla.”

* * * 

In the centre of the trio of megascope stands, Ciri's ghostly image flickers into view. 

"Geralt!" she exclaims, breaking into a grin. "I didn't expect to see you too."

"Yeah, well, you know how we are." Geralt glances sideways at Emhyr, smiling sardonically. "Joined at the hip. Right, honey?"

Emhyr shuts his eyes for a moment and draws a deep breath.  _ Great Sun, give me strength,  _ he thinks, as Ciri tries her best to muffle her laughter. 

"Cirilla," he greets her calmly. "Have you any news from the capital?"

"Like you haven't already heard everything," she retorts, though her smile takes any bite out of the words.

Emhyr gives a tiny huff of laughter. "Humour me, then, please."

Ciri frowns in concentration, thinking back on the events of the last week. Even in the scratchy projection, he can see the eager glint in her eyes, and pride fills him to the brim—it seems to do that an awful lot these days. She throws herself into her work with an enthusiasm and a glee that he never experienced in the early days of his own rule. It makes him unspeakably happy to see her thrive. 

"Well, I did hear from Morvran," she says. "He arrived at the palace yesterday with some reports from Tretogor, Temeria and Novigrad, mostly financial documents. I think he's eager to hear a final decision on whether he'll be crossing the Pontar this winter."

"As he should be." Indeed, Emhyr has already received and read the documents in question, and found them extremely enlightening. 

Ciri raises an eyebrow, amused. "If I didn't know better, I might say  _ someone _ has given him the impression that a successful invasion into Redania would impress me greatly."

Emhyr looks at Geralt, who winces. 

"I didn't mean to," he defends himself. "I  _ said _ you thought Radovid was a pathetic son of a whore, he just reads into everything."

"Please, in the future, refrain from making such statements in the presence of other people," Emhyr sighs. 

Ciri laughs. "Oh, it's far from the worst gossip I've heard lately. You two are going to be sorely missed at the Belleteyn festivities over here, it seems."

Emhyr grimaces. He knew it would invite speculation to drag Geralt on a sojourn to Toussaint coinciding with the festival, but the timing was unavoidable on multiple fronts. Out of the corner of his eye he watches Geralt frown as well, though he seems distinctly more miserable. 

"Fuck, I forgot that was coming up," he groans. "I'm sorry, Ciri. I'll make up for it."

Emhyr studies him, confused, before it hits him like a slap: they'll be away for Ciri's birthday. For a moment he feels dazed, lost in guilt. He hasn’t had the chance to celebrate his daughter's birthday with her since she was a toddler, hasn’t even seen her in years, and now he's managed to forget. 

"My apologies, Cirilla," he says quietly. "I…" 

He feels Geralt's hand rest on his shoulder, a comforting weight, and looks to him in surprise. Geralt offers him a little smile, as if he knows exactly what's going on in his head. 

"Hey, it's fine!" Ciri shakes her head, fondly exasperated. "We can celebrate when you both get back, I don't mind. Mererid’s sure to spoil me, anyway."

"We will most certainly celebrate," Emhyr promises, already making plans.

"In the meantime…" Geralt exchanges a conspiratorial look with him. "We think we might've found a project for you."

"Oh?" Ciri perks up. 

Silently, Emhyr thanks Geralt for his excellent timing. "There is an orphanage just beyond the city," he begins. "It was partially destroyed in the attacks, and now sits abandoned. Moreover, Geralt has dismembered its vampiric benefactor."

"Yeah." Ciri winces. "Heard about that."

Geralt huffs. 

"I believe it would be a very fitting show of goodwill, were you to oversee its repair," Emhyr offers. "A personal donation to the orphanage in the wake of such a tragedy would go far to establish you as a benevolent ruler. Though," he adds, with amusement, "it is certainly not necessary. The duchy is already enamoured with you."

"Course they are," Geralt grins. "A fairy tale warrior empress for a fairy tale land."

Ciri rolls her eyes. "You're both ridiculous. But," she acquiesces, "I like the idea." She looks a bit sheepish. "It does get a bit tiring now and again, just working on numbers and papers and taking lessons and all that."

"I understand," Emhyr says. When both Ciri and Geralt look a bit surprised, he shrugs. “You require interaction with the citizens you serve in order to feel that your work is meaningful.” Softer, he adds, “It will make you a brilliant leader. One fit for peacetime.”

The surety returns to her eyes, and Emhyr revels in it. She’s already a hundred times the person he is, and he never once thought he’d find as much joy in that as he does. 

Ciri’s gaze slips beyond Emhyr and Geralt, to something outside the projection. “Sorry,” she says after a moment, “they’re calling for me.”

Emhyr nods. “Go attend to your duties. And give Morvran my regards.”

“Regis said hello,” Geralt adds quickly. “He wants you to visit more.”

Ciri brightens. “I’ll do my best! Send over some information about the orphanage, yes? Farewell! And stay safe,” she warns, “both of you.”

The image shimmers and then vanishes as Ciri hurries off, leaving Emhyr’s throat distinctly tight. He swallows before turning away from the megascope, to find Geralt watching him with a curious expression. 

He raises an eyebrow. 

“You act like you’re walking on eggshells around her.” Geralt crosses his arms, looking contemplative. “Don’t get me wrong, you could use a little humility. But she  _ wants  _ to be where she is. She wants a relationship with you. You don’t have to look so terrified whenever you talk to her about anything but politics.”

Emhyr scoffs. “I am  _ not– _ ” And then he finds himself trailing off, because something in Geralt’s expression tells him that this isn’t mockery. He glances down, suddenly feeling self-conscious. It’s a very new sensation. 

“Shocking, I know,” Geralt says, not unkindly, “but you aren’t the only one capable of reading a person.”

Drawing a deep breath, Emhyr looks him in the eye. “My Empire has been my life, Geralt. When I hand it away, I will have nothing left but her. And I have spent the last twenty years losing her.” He can’t keep a tremble out of his voice. “Forgive me for treading carefully. I never wish to drive her away again.”

Geralt’s entire demeanour softens. He steps closer, wraps an arm around his shoulders and one around his waist, and draws him into a hug. Emhyr stiffens instinctively, gripped by a momentary panic—then relaxes, bit by bit, until Geralt makes a little noise of approval. 

“You’re doing good,” Geralt says quietly. “Trust me. You’ve got her back in your life, now enjoy it.” He releases Emhyr and gives a wry smile. “Always knew you’d be shit at retirement.”

Emhyr purses his lips in feigned displeasure. “And here you are, guarding me instead of relaxing at your estate, because you are fantastic at it.”

“Touché,” Geralt grins. He nudges him with his shoulder. “C’mon, let’s go tell them to hurry up with dinner. I’m starving.”

Emhyr follows him out—still shaken, but strangely at peace with it. Whether that’s a good thing or not, he hasn’t decided. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Emhyr's speech to the orphans:
> 
> "Everyone must end. In death, by the Great Sun, by the White Flame, join in the blood of the Empire. Ida, you are a Child of the Sun. Thus it shall be. Farewell."

**Author's Note:**

> [Find me on Tumblr!](https://nbgeralt.tumblr.com)


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